


The Colour of Heartbreak

by alatariel_gildaen



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Napoleonic Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:05:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 111,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alatariel_gildaen/pseuds/alatariel_gildaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England, 1810. While Europe falls to the dictator Napoleon Bonaparte, two very different magicians rise to restore magic to England's shores. While the war rages on and the two magicians, Heavensbee and Mellark, disagree over the fundamentals of magic, Peeta must use all of his powers to rescue Katniss from a terrible fate. Historical and fairytale AU, based on Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly huge huge HUGE thanks go to Court81981 for her wonderful beta work, to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading, and to Ro Nordmann for the gorgeous cover. Thanks to all you gorgeous ladies :)
> 
> This Everlark story is based on the wonderful Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke. Some characters belong to her, others belong to Suzanne Collins.
> 
> Anyway, this is very different to anything else I have ever attempted, and I'd really appreciate your feedback! Reviews are appreciated, and if you have any questions, come and find me on tumblr (I'm alatarielgildaen on there)

Magic had long since left England. Tales of the past glories of magicians and their fairy-servants had passed into folklore, and the general populace believed that their fair country would never see the like again.

All over the country, societies dedicated themselves to keeping the memory of magic alive. These men all called themselves magicians, but they could no more do actual practical magic as they could learn to fly. Instead of practising magic, these men called themselves theoretical magicians, and spent their days in great debate. They debated the use of magic in the past. They debated which fairies individual magicians favoured as their servants. They debated the types of spells used and the different lands that a master of magic could travel between.

Mr Finnick Odair had been born and raised in Whitby. He was a fisherman's son, although after his mother's death, his father had remarried above his station, and the family had therefore come into a little money, which meant that Finnick was able to pursue other pleasures. And he had always longed to learn more about the magicians of the past. However, magic was a profession generally reserved for gentlemen of leisure, as books about magic were rare and expensive, and books of magic even more so.

Coming from a poor town such as Whitby, Mr Odair was starved of company from whom he could learn. But he knew that in York there existed one of the largest magical societies. The societies, known as Districts, were numbered around the country, and York was the home of District 12.

At first, when Mr Odair arrived at a District 12 meeting, he was happy to observe the older theoretical magicians in their endless debate, unsure that they would appreciate the input from one so young. However, Mr Odair was possessed with a natural charm, and during a lull in the conversation, he asked the question that burned in him the most.

"Perhaps the esteemed gentlemen here present could answer me, why is it that magic is no longer performed in England?"

Poor Mr Odair! He had not predicted the uproar that such a question would cause! Half the magicians looked at him with scorn, saying that they knew permitting entry to District 12 to one so young had been a mistake. Another group proclaimed that magic had not been seen in England in over three hundred years, and that was just the way it was. And yet another group stood side by side with Mr Odair, saying that his young blood was precisely what was required to inject life into their District, that it was their undeniable duty to see magic returned to its former glory.

"Then," continued Mr Odair, "why has no one seen fit to contact the gentleman who lives at Northolt Abbey? Mr Heavensbee? I heard tales that he is a practical magician."

The uproar continued unabated. Some of the magicians from District 12 believed the tales to be greatly exaggerated. Some wondered why Mr Heavensbee hadn't sought out their company if his claims had any truth to them.

The debate raged on, and a notion occurred to Mr Odair. These men loved debate, but not a single one of them seemed fond of action. In fact, the idea of practical magic returning to England almost appeared to frighten them. And so he decided that he would write to the gentleman who was secluded away at Northolt Abbey himself and ask him for a demonstration of his magic. Surely, as an Englishmen, it was his duty to his King to return England to her former glory if he had the ability.

After four weeks, Mr Odair received his reply, but not in the form expected. A surly, scruffy-looking man introduced himself in a thick, Yorkshire accent at a District 12 meeting as Mr Haymitch Abernathy, Mr Plutarch Heavensbee's personal assistant. He wasted no time in telling the District of Mr Heavensbee's intentions.

"Sirs, the gentleman for whom I work wishes to assure you all that magic has not left England. He is willing to do a practical demonstration for you, but… there is one condition."

One of the older magicians, a Mr Cray, who had been in charge of District 12 for many, many years, looked upon this scruffy-looking fellow with disdain. "And what, _sir_ , might this condition be?"

A smirk passed across the face of Mr Abernathy before he pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his coat pocket. "I have here a contract that Mr Heavensbee wishes you all to sign. If he gives a successful demonstration of his magic, he demands that District 12 disbands immediately, and that henceforth no members call themselves magicians anymore. He has, of course, already signed to say that if he fails, he will give up the title of magician himself."

If Mr Odair's suggestion of contacting Mr Heavensbee had caused outrage in District 12, it was nothing compared to the uproar that now occurred. But while the debate reignited, Mr Odair experienced a terrible, sinking sensation. More than anything, his deepest desire was to see practical magic performed, but he could not give up being a magician himself. If he wasn't a magician, who was he? He was no longer the fisherman's son that he had grown up as. Without the title of 'magician,' there was no place for him in society.

Eventually, all of District 12 agreed to sign the contract. Some, like Mr Cray, signed immediately out of a kind of vanity; they had publicly declared Mr Heavensbee's magic to be false, and so to back away from such a claim would only cause themselves embarrassment. Some signed out of curiosity. Some signed because they felt they had nothing to lose. One by one, every member of the District 12 society signed the piece of paper, until only Mr Odair was left.

Imagine the despair that poor Mr Odair felt! All his life he had dreamed of living in the company of magicians, and here he was, barely four weeks into his dream, and he was being obliged to give it up! As the contract was passed to him, he plucked up his heart, and stoutly declared, "No, sir! I will not sign! I wish more than anything to see magic returned to England. Why, it is at my request that you are here now! If I give up magic, what is left for me?"

Mr Abernathy smirked and took the contract back from Mr Odair. "Mr Heavensbee believed that you would react this way," he said, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. "As such, he gave me explicit instructions that you, and you alone, will be able to continue to study magic, although you cannot do it here in Yorkshire. You will be obliged to find another District to take you in, if any will. I daresay your reputation for helping to destroy 12 will precede you. But I may be wrong," he shrugged. He turned his back on Mr Odair and glanced over the contract before turning back to face the District. "Thank you, gentlemen. This all seems to be in order. Mr Heavensbee will perform the magic two weeks from today. Gather at the entrance to the Royal Park at midday. Good day to you, sirs."

The air was crisp and clear, and a frost hung about the leaves of all the trees on the morning that Mr Heavensbee had promised to perform his magic. Midday came and went, and there was neither a sight nor sound of the magic that Mr Heavensbee had promised to perform, nor even of the man himself. Mr Cray laughed, a cold, humourless bark and said, "The man was full of bluster. We had nothing to fear from such a man. Why, with a servant as disreputable as his, would we ever have fallen for such a poor trick?"

At that moment a strange ripple passed over everything in sight, as if there was a second world occupying the space of the first, just out of sight, just out of reach, but present nonetheless. A scruffy, surly-looking fellow appeared in front of them. Mr Abernathy seemed to have stepped out of the cold air itself, and he took all the magicians by surprise as he spoke in his thick, Yorkshire accent.

"Gentlemen, my apologies for my tardiness. Mr Heavensbee is ready to perform the magic."

The members of District 12 looked around for the elusive Mr Heavensbee, but he was nowhere to be seen. The scruffy-looking gentleman walked straight up to Mr Odair and spoke in a hushed voice, "Mr Heavensbee wishes to employ you, sir. You will still have to leave Yorkshire if you wish to continue to study magic. In return for his generous allowance, you will be required to perform certain duties. If I were you, I would accept this offer, sir. Just to be prudent."

A voice, not quite human, more melodic and bird-like, echoed the words, "Just to be prudent," and soon the words were echoing all around them. One of the District 12 magicians looked up and pointed out a black-and-white bird sat in a tree, that opened his beak and sung the words "Just to be prudent! Just to be prudent!" The birds were all around them, copying their words, repeating them back to each other, causing a great cacophony of noise that reached up to the heavens.

The magicians spent an hour marvelling at the talking birds, laughing as they repeated their sentences back in their trill, sing-song voices, before, one by one, the birds began to fly away. And just as the birds were disbanded, so District 12 was no more.

Most of the magicians now found themselves without occupation. And rather unfairly too, I must say. For what is a magician if he is unable to debate his chosen subject? Many of the men now took to idling about their homes all day, getting under the feet of their wives, and upsetting the servants.

But this is not their tale. And so now we rejoin Mr Odair. Like all the other magicians in District 12, he had been suitably impressed by the demonstration of magic. But what use to England was a demonstration in the heart of York? How would the important persons in government, the high society of London, hear about it? Mr Abernathy gave explicit instructions to Mr Odair to travel to London, to write to the periodicals and praise the Yorkshire man who was bringing magic back to England. A man with his natural charm was sure to find a place in London society after all.

Mr Odair felt he had little choice. The way the offer had been presented to him, it was quite clear that it was this, or give up the profession that he held so dear….

\---------------------------------

"Well, sir, you've achieved your first goal," said Haymitch as he poured Mr Heavensbee a glass of brandy. He handed the drink to his master then proceeded to pour a similar glass for himself. It was true that they did not have the usual master/servant relationship, and Mr Heavensbee barely raised an eyebrow when Haymitch took a seat opposite him, as if he were an equal. "You've effectively destroyed all claims to magicianship in Yorkshire. If you can take over the whole of the North, why, maybe you can even lay claim to the throne of the Raven King himself."

Plutarch Heavensbee shot Haymitch a look that was half anger, half fear, almost as if he expected the Raven King himself to appear to face this challenge to his throne.

"Haymitch," he said with exaggerated patience, "you know full well it is not, nor has it ever been, my intention to lay any kind of claim to any kind of throne. I merely wish to make magic once again a respectable profession. And I will do so without the aid of the Raven King, nor any of his wicked fairy brethren."

"Of course, sir. My apologies."

The two men drank their brandy in silence while Haymitch withdrew a pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Mr Heavensbee flashed Haymitch an admonishing look. "Not around the books," he said sternly.

Haymitch raised an eyebrow at his master but conceded defeat and tucked his unlit cigarette behind his ear. He looked around the library. Beautifully and elaborately carved mahogany bookshelves lined every single wall, and there was not a free space on any of the shelves. This was a collection that would thrill any bibliophile, but it was also a collection quite unlike any other.

Any magician would pay handsomely for a book _about_ magic. Books about magic gave detailed histories of past magicians and their feats and very specifically described the effects of the spells they used, but none were ever able to describe the spells themselves. These were only ever found in books _of_ magic, which were exceptionally rare. And Plutarch Heavensbee had amassed the greatest collection of books of magic anywhere in the civilised world.

There were times, Haymitch had to admit to himself, that he found himself uncomfortable in that great library. Perhaps it was the impression the books gave that some of them were able to breathe. Or that some even seemed to whisper to him. Perhaps his discomfort arose when he witnessed anyone other than Mr Heavensbee or himself attempt to read even a title of one of those books, how they would squint at the printed spines, unable to make out a single letter. Or how, if they attempted to take a book from a shelf, they would find themselves entirely unable to lift it even an inch. Whether a spell had been cast in the library by Heavensbee, or whether it was the books protecting themselves, Haymitch was unsure. He wasn't entirely certain if he truly wanted to know.

Sensing that a change of subject was best, Haymitch picked up his brandy and swirled it around the glass. "What of the one that got away?"

"Mr Odair? He could be useful, for now. I am well aware that I need someone to introduce me when I travel to London. People are easy to manipulate when you hold something of importance over their head. If he fails to do as he is told, he has nowhere to go. Once word gets out to the other Districts of his part in 12's downfall then he will be shunned. So, I believe Mr Odair will simply do as he is told."

Haymitch nodded and sipped at his brandy. Mr Heavensbee was like a master chess player, willing to sacrifice anything to win the endgame. He wondered briefly when it would be his own sacrifice that was called upon.

"Anyway," continued Mr Heavensbee, "I will be far happier when the other Districts go the way of District 12. And with the false magicians gone, we are left to our far greater task."

"And what might that be, sir?"

"To bring magic back to England and to make it respectable once again. To make England forget every connection magic had with those demonic beasts known as fairies. And our biggest challenge of all: the complete eradication of the memory of the Raven King."

Haymitch stared at his master for a moment, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise. He was a Northerner, and if there was one thing that was dear to the hearts of all Northern Englishmen, it was their connection to the Raven King, the beautiful English child taken by fairies when he was just a boy, raised to become the greatest magician the world had ever known. It was said that the Raven King ruled over three separate Kingdoms: Northern England, the entirety of Fairie, and a strange land located somewhere on the other side of Hell. And even though the Raven King had ridden out of England three hundred years earlier and had not been seen since, many Northerners still felt a stronger allegiance towards him than towards the current monarch, afflicted as he was with his terrible madness.

Haymitch nodded pensively, doing his best to keep his feelings hidden. It would not do well for Mr Heavensbee to know the paths down which his thoughts were straying.

\-----------------------------------------

It was tremendously difficult for Finnick Odair arriving in London and knowing no one. At first, he was able to rent some small rooms in Drury Lane. Not exactly respectable, but suitable to his purposes. And from his cramped bedroom, he wrote to all the periodicals, but no one seemed especially keen to publish the opinion of an unknown son of a fisherman regarding some disturbance that took place in Yorkshire, of all places.

A kind of panic began to consume him, as the threats hanging over him, placed there by Mr Heavensbee, seemed to become ever more present. If he was to do Mr Heavensbee's bidding, he would have to begin making a name for himself in London.

And so Mr Odair began to ensconce himself in London society. It was slow going at first, but he was gifted with enough natural beauty and charm that very soon he was a regular face amongst the capital's parties.

He almost began to forget Mr Heavensbee's request, and Mr Abernathy's less-than-subtle hints that unless he was successful in his mission to introduce Mr Heavensbee to London society, he would no longer be able to call himself a magician—that is, until a polite but firm letter arrived reminding him of his duties.

He had no choice but to find some kind of patronage, someone with influence who would stand firm behind his words. Already Mr Odair was finding himself hopelessly drawn towards the beautiful Miss Annie Cresta, daughter of Sir Adam Cresta, an estate owner in Hertfordshire. Sir Adam was highly influential in London society, and it occurred to Mr Odair that with Sir Adam's patronage, he would be published by any of the periodicals.

When at last Mr Odair's description of the magic performed in York was published in The London Review, it caused less of a ripple than a pebble thrown into the Thames. Many people were liable to believe it was a joke and immediately dismissed it as a strange piece of satire. Mr Odair's fast wit was becoming well known in society, after all.

"What am I to do, Miss Cresta?" he asked one evening, collapsing into an armchair, as worried servants pressed a comforting glass of brandy into his hand. "I have failed. I have done what was asked of me, but I have still failed. Mr Heavensbee is sure to strip me of my right to be a magician."

"This Mr Heavensbee sounds an odd sort of creature to me," said Annie thoughtfully. "I cannot understand why any man would want to remove himself from the company of his own contemporaries."

"You cannot understand because you are sweet and pure. Mr Heavensbee has designs on power, of that I can be certain. And the easiest way for him to ensure he has the most power is to ensure that other men have none. And seeing as he is the only man in England with the ability to do practical magic, he has a fair claim."

"It will not do," said Sir Adam. "It would not suit a country to have only one politician, able to run everything as only he saw fit. Why should magic be governed by a single person?"

"Sir Adam, what Mr Heavensbee has done is remarkable, even if it may not appear it to people in London just yet. This is the first real magic done in two hundred years. After the Raven King disappeared from the North, magic slowly began to dwindle until we simply forgot it all."

"It does not seem all that remarkable to me. I fail to see how talking birds can be of any use to England. And by your own account they could only repeat what was heard. We couldn't even have conversations with them!"

"It was a simple demonstration, Sir Adam, that is all. The proof that magic could still be done. I am loathe to admit it, but Mr Heavensbee could be a great asset to England, and particularly to the war effort."

"Not from York, he won't be. If he wishes to show how he can help England then he needs to travel to London himself and show us how he can be of assistance. We are of course grateful he sent you to us, Mr Odair, but he cannot rely on the words of one man to achieve greatness."

Mr Odair sighed as he sat back in the armchair and sipped at his brandy. "You are right, Sir Adam. I will write to him. Tell him to come here himself. Although you are right in another aspect too. I wish there were at least one other magician, so that Mr Heavensbee's opinion does not end up being the sole one."

"Well, what if there was another practical magician?" said Miss Cresta.

"But there are no others."

"But what if there were?"

Miss Cresta was watching him with such earnest. Her meaning could not have been more apparent. "I truly am flattered," he smiled, quite unable to meet her intense gaze, "But I have no one to learn from. I have no books. And I have a feeling Mr Heavensbee will not be interested in taking me on as a pupil."

"Have you thought of talking to the street magicians?" asked Sir Adam.

"Oh, absolutely! Father, what a wonderful idea! You should visit Marvel; he is the best of all the street magicians! I am sure that for a few coins he would be willing to take you on as a pupil!"

Street magicians were rife in London. These gypsies and travellers claimed to be able to tell fortunes and prophecies. When most Londoners thought of magicians, it was these pretenders that first came to their minds. Mr Odair knew more than most that he would never be able to learn actual practical magic from one of these charlatans, but Miss Cresta seemed so taken with the idea that he felt unable to deny her.

The following day he took to London's foggy, smoke-clogged streets, seeking out the filthy booth that Miss Cresta had described as belonging to Marvel, the most popular of all the pretenders. He recognized the booth from the description Miss Cresta had given of the tattered yellow curtain. Tentatively, he pulled the curtain to one side.

In front of him was a wretched creature. Tall and skeletally thin with sunken eyes, he barely looked human, an appearance exaggerated by the spidery tattoos covering every visible inch of skin. At the sight of Mr Odair, his eyes grew wide, a hungry expression crossing over them. "You want to know your fortune, sir?" he asked. "Know where to find a beautiful bride? Or perhaps a willing mistress? For a shilling I can tell you all you wish to know."

Feeling slightly embarrassed by the whole situation, Mr Odair took a seat on a rickety stool, while Marvel reached inside his shabby coat and withdrew a deck of cards. He set them on the velvet-draped table and held his palm out towards Mr Odair expectantly. The latter cleared his throat and said, "I am not here to have my fortunes read."

If it were possible, Marvel's gaunt eyes opened even wider and took on an aspect of fear. "Sir, I need just a little more time. Give me one more week, and I shall get you your money."

"Neither am I here to collect debts."

Marvel slumped to his seat and took a deep, hacking cough. "Then leave. I have no need for time wasters."

Mr Odair reached inside his own coat and withdrew a silk purse filled with coins. He dropped this on the table in front of Marvel and said, "I wish to learn magic."

Marvel licked his dry, cracked lips and reached across the table for the purse, but before he could reach it, Mr Odair covered the purse with his own hand. "I also wish it to be known that I know you are a fraud. I am here only as a favour to one I hold dear. But," he said, uncovering the purse once more, "I cannot bear to see a man, even a wretch such as yourself, go hungry."

An odd look passed over Marvel's face. Hurriedly, he took up the deck of cards and shuffled them, then placed one face up on the table in front of him. A curious grin tugged at his lips, revealing a mouth of cracked, yellow teeth, and he snapped his head up to meet Mr Odair's gaze so suddenly that Mr Odair felt himself start. "I've been waiting for you," he said in a tone that made goose bumps appear over Mr Odair's skin.

"For me?" he spoke back in a hushed tone, before shaking himself back to the present. Marvel was, at heart, a conman, and was clearly using every trick in his book to lure in his prey. And he, Mr Odair, was falling for it.

"Two magicians are destined to restore magic to England."

"And you think one of them is me?"

"No. Although you are instrumental in helping them. One claims to act in the best interest of magic, although it is usually only his own interests he serves. The other has intentions that are more noble, although he will appear far more dangerous to those around him. And while these men struggle for power, the nameless slave will rise and become King of a strange and foreign land. You already know one of these gentlemen, I believe, Mr Odair."

How did this wretch know his name? It was an impossibility!

"How could you…?"

"I have long known of the restoration of English magic, Mr Odair. And that one day you would seek me out."

Once again, imagine the sadness felt by Mr Odair at hearing this news—at hearing how his destiny was not his own! Nobly putting aside his own bitter disappointment he said, "You are correct that I already know one of these eminent gentlemen. Tell me of the other."

"You need not find him. He will come to you."

"Tell me, wretch. Why should I believe this prophecy? How did you come by it?"

Marvel looked over the strange tattoos covering his entire body. "It was passed to me. Many years ago. You can choose to believe it or not. It will come true either way." Marvel eyed the silk purse greedily and snatched the coins up before he held open the tattered yellow curtain, dismissing Mr Odair from his fortune-telling booth.

Back in the cold London air it seemed easier to dismiss the ramblings and ravings of the strange, inked man as utter nonsense. He would return to the company of Sir Adam and Miss Cresta, exhilarated from his adventure, but no closer to learning magic than he had been that morning. And he would write to Mr Heavensbee who would come to London, and continue to hold sway over him. Perhaps magic was more trouble than it was worth, after all.

\---------------------------------

Mr Heavensbee hated travel with an intense passion. He hated the discomfort of the carriage, the constant movement, and the ever-present cold breeze. But more than anything, he hated being away from his precious library back at Northolt Abbey. For his journey to London, he was forced to only pack a few belongings, and choosing which books to take with him occupied an entire day. He couldn't bear to leave them behind, even though his library was entirely protected from outside intrusion, but the idea of them being taken outside of his library, even though they would be by his side, was enough to give him palpitations. Thanks to the constant complaining about trifling discomforts, by the time he and Haymitch finally arrived in London, Haymitch was almost ready to walk out on his master and seek a new fortune.

Mr Heavensbee took up residence in a house in Hanover Square. One room was entirely dedicated to the housing of the books he had finally chosen to bring with him. By any accounts, it was still one of the most impressive libraries in England, although still paled in significance compared with the treasures he had left behind.

For several weeks, Mr Heavensbee stayed locked in his new home, complaining about the draughts, or the smaller proportions to the rooms, or the lack of light in his sitting room after four o'clock. The constant complaints grated sorely upon Haymitch's nerves, compounded by Mr Heavensbee's apparent refusal to actually do anything. They had travelled the length and breadth of the country in order to try and restore English magic, and yet Mr Heavensbee remained beset by inaction.

"They will come to me," he kept saying to Haymitch.

His servant, of course, knew better and secretly called upon the services of Mr Odair.

"What am I to do?" Mr Odair beseeched Haymitch. "Words of little more than parlour tricks in York have no effect on these people. If Mr Heavensbee wishes to prove his usefulness, why, he must go out and do it himself!"

"And he will. He merely requires an opportunity. Surely with the connections you have forged you can think of something. I would hate to have to tell Mr Heavensbee that you are being obtuse."

Oh, despair! Mr Odair was becoming all too well acquainted with that feeling! "There is one chance," he said, shaking his head sadly. "But I do not know how possible it will be for me to arrange a meeting."

"I am sure you will find a way," replied Haymitch, leaving Mr Odair alone once again.

Mr Christopher Everdeen was the Foreign Minister. As well as being highly influential within government, he was a well-liked and well-respected member of society. His daughters were both intelligent and beautiful. Primrose had exceptional talent on the pianoforte, while Katniss' voice had the magic to enchant anyone around her. Both were exceptionally loved, and as such, the tragedy of Katniss being diagnosed with consumption struck the people of London a severe blow.

She bore it stoically, never once complaining of her severe discomfort. A good friend of Miss Cresta's, Mr Odair had met her only once, and had been struck by the sadness that one so young and beautiful would likely soon lose their life to such a terrible disease.

He had read once that magic could be used to cure all manner of illnesses and ailments, and so perhaps Mr Heavensbee would be able to succeed where doctors and surgeons had failed.

At first, when he made the suggestion, Annie shot it down without a second thought. Her distrust of Mr Heavensbee made her irrationally dismiss the idea without fully comprehending that it could mean her friend's full return to life. However, after visiting Katniss, and being left in tears at how cold and close to death her dear friend was, Annie was moved to action. She begged her father to speak with Mr Everdeen, to allow this strange magician access to poor Katniss. Out of desperation for his daughter, willing to try anything, Mr Everdeen agreed.

Tragedy struck too soon, however. Arrangements had been made for Mr Heavensbee to visit the young Miss Everdeen, and before he had even been able to warm his hands from the bitter cold outside, Madge, Miss Everdeen's attendant, came running into the parlour in tears, to inform everyone that Miss Everdeen had passed on.

Mr Everdeen collapsed into a nearby armchair, his head in his hands. Cinna, his butler, immediately pressed a glass of brandy into his shaking hands, while Miss Primrose wept at her father's feet.

Seeing the private grief of everyone assembled, Mr Odair apologised to the family for their loss and began to back out of the room, expecting Mr Heavensbee and Haymitch to follow. However, Mr Heavensbee was muttering to himself. "It may not be too late, but…. This is precisely the kind of magic I wish to decry….. No. I cannot. I must not. But how else… It is dangerous, of course….. but the potential benefits…"

"Mr Heavensbee?" said Mr Odair, causing the older man to start suddenly.

The magician looked at Mr Odair fearfully, concerned that his fretful mutterings had been heard, and worse, understood, by the younger man. In an instant, his mind was made up, and he said out loud to the room, "It may not be too late for Miss Everdeen. I may still be able to help her yet."

"She is dead, dear God, man, let her rest!" said Sir Adam, his dislike of Mr Heavensbee clear for all the world to see.

"Then nothing my master can do can possibly disturb or harm her further," said Haymitch.

"Mr Everdeen," the magician addressed the grieving father directly, "time is entirely of the essence. Miss Katniss has only just passed. Which means she will be easy to find and bring back. The longer it is left, the more difficult the magic I wish to perform will be. Sir, at least allow me to try."

"You will not harm her?" said Mr Everdeen through his tears.

"I assure you, sir, that I will not."

Mr Everdeen was far too distressed to show Mr Heavensbee to where his daughter was lying upon her death-bed, and so the sad task was left to Madge. He insisted upon absolute solitude when performing the magic, closing the door on the maid behind him with a deep, heavy sigh.

Miss Everdeen looked as though she could merely be sleeping. Someone, probably her maid, had laid a handful of white roses over her perfect breasts, and had positioned her hands to clutch them. A light breeze ruffled her hair slightly, and Mr Heavensbee looked for the offending window in order to close it, fearful that his voice would carry into the street, even from here.

He checked that no one was waiting outside the door; it was imperative that no one ever know precisely what he was about to attempt. He stood at the foot of the bed, and moved his hand in a complicated movement over the body of Katniss Everdeen, whispering an ancient fairy name, long forgotten by most. Immediately, the breeze that had blown through the open window picked up again, although now it appeared to originate not from the window, but from the opposite wall.

" _Oh Lar_!" said Mr Heavensbee, " _Magnum opus est mihi tuo auxilio. Haec virgo mortua est et familia eius eam ad vitam redire vult._ "

A strange shimmering passed over the room. Suddenly the dimensions appeared differently, as if a whole new world existed in the room that could not be seen. The large, ornate, golden mirror hanging over Miss Everdeen's mantelpiece reflected a view that did not exist, and Mr Heavensbee suddenly understood where the strange breeze was coming from. Within the confines of the mirror, a castle in a terrible state of disrepair could be seen. The decaying walls and torn banners may once have been glorious, but years of neglect had taken their toll.

A figure could be seen moving within the mirror. A distinguished-looking gentleman with snow-white hair, dressed in the most impeccable clothing. Mr Plutarch swallowed his nervousness as the gentlemen stepped down from the mirror, and immediately rushed to the side of Miss Everdeen. His eyes widened, and as he spoke Mr Plutarch became aware of an otherworldly smell: a bizarre mixture of blood and roses. The gentleman with snow-white hair was speaking in a rapid fairy-tongue that Mr Plutarch found difficult to follow, although he appeared to be proclaiming Miss Everdeen's outstanding beauty.

He cleared his throat, and spoke again. " _Oh Lar, me ad hanc magnam operam te…._ "

"I need not hear why you have chosen me to bring this woman back to life. I know that I am the most powerful of my race, that I have more magical power in this or any other world than lies in all the trees in the forests or stones in the mountains. The question, human, is who are you?"

Mr Plutarch stumbled over his words. He had not expected to be treated this way by anyone, and certainly not by a fairy. "I, sir? I am the greatest magician of the age! I am the only magician of this age!"

The gentleman with the snow-white hair stepped closer to Mr Plutarch, and a small, cold smile widened his lips, causing the smell of blood and roses to grow ever clearer. "No. There is another magician. He is just not yet aware."

Mr Heavensbee felt as though he had been doused in cold water. There could be no other magician, surely? This must be one of the fairy's devilish tricks. Shaking his head, and ignoring the ominous message for now, Mr Heavensbee said, "It is of vital importance that this woman be restored to life. You can do it?"

"Of course I can," replied the gentleman with snow-white hair, waving his hand dismissively. "But with what will you pay me?"

Mr Heavensbee's brow furrowed in confusion. In all his researches he had never heard of fairies demanding payment for their services. "Mr Everdeen, this woman's father, is a rich man and—"

"I have no need for jewels or riches. My request is simple. I have been the confidante and advisor of some of the greatest magicians in history; Thomas of Lanchester, Catherine of Winchester, I even sat beside Merlin at the court of King Arthur. Allow me to guide your studies, to teach you. And you will tell the world that your power comes from me."

Mr Heavensbee blanched at such a notion! His entire life had been dedicated to study, to prove that magic had not been eradicated from England, and most of all to prove that fairies were not a 'necessary evil' when it came to magic. And now that he had proven his first two points, he was to be thwarted on the third! It simply would not do. Mr Heavensbee mumbled quietly about the gentleman's kind offer, but how it was quite simply impossible to accept.

"Well," said the gentleman with a small laugh, and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. Outside the window, the falling rain suddenly turned to snow, and ice crystals began to form over the glass, reaching out with their frozen tendrils to create a mesmerizing pattern over the pane. "I will admit that I had not expected such a chill welcome. Had I known that I would be greeted by so little gratitude, I would not have made the journey. I knew Englishmen to be arrogant, but to refuse to acknowledge my help at all…. I have every mind to return presently to my Kingdom of Panem!"

"You refuse to help her, then?"

"I did not say that!" spat the gentleman. "It is a pity to waste one so beautiful. She would be greatly admired by so many…." The gentleman looked down over the body of Miss Everdeen, and a hungry smile crossed his face. "Give me half her life. That is my fee. I will accept nothing else."

Half her life? Miss Everdeen was twenty years old. If she had been blessed with full health, she could live to seventy, which gave her another fifty years. Half of that was twenty-five, meaning that Katniss could live to forty-five. And living to forty-five was surely better than dying at twenty.

"Half her life," agreed Mr Heavensbee.

The gentleman's smile widened, and the smell of blood and roses became overpowering. "I will require a token from her. Something personal." He bent over Miss Everdeen's body, shielding her from Mr Heavensbee's view, and when he stood up, Mr Heavensbee could see that the gentleman as secreting something away inside a small, ornate snuff box, decorated with a beautiful opal. It was impossible to properly describe the colour of this opal; not quite lilac, not quite pale blue, not quite grey. If one had to describe it, it could be said that the opal was the colour of heartbreak.

Without another word, the gentleman crossed to the mirror and stepped inside. As the reflection rearranged itself to show Miss Everdeen's room as it should be, the young woman herself sat up in bed with a deep gasp. She touched her own breast, amazed at the strength of the heart beating within it, before she held her hand up before her own face. A look of polite confusion passed over her visage and Mr Heavensbee witnessed the source of her confusion. The smallest finger on her left hand was missing. The smell of blood and roses hung in the air and, too late, Mr Heavensbee began to wonder precisely what he had bargained with, and what exactly the gentleman had meant by 'half her life.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thanks go as always to Court81981 for encouragement, support, patience, and general all-round awesomeness.
> 
> Huge thanks also go to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading. You two ladies are just fabulous.
> 
> This chapter is being dedicated to mellarksloaves (Everlark Pearl) - this hellish winter won't last forever hun, hang in there. Huge hugs in the meantime.
> 
> Please do leave feedback, I'd love to know what you think of this :) And feel free to follow me on tumblr - alatarielgildaen

Mrs Eleanor Mellark was not known for her kindness. Indeed, she was known for being proud, avaricious and short-tempered, a reputation that had grown exponentially since her gentle husband's death. The servants were all terribly afraid of inciting her wrath, for she was known for lashing out at the slightest provocation.

When Gale Hawthorne came to work for Mrs Mellark, he was determined to make a name for himself. Like Mrs Mellark, he was proud, and could be quick to anger, but unlike Mrs Mellark, whose main trait was bitterness and nothing more, Gale's temperament featured many more shades of colour. He was also hardworking and fiercely loyal, and could almost be forgiven for the fact that he knew deep in his heart that he was better than the other servants, that it was only a matter of time until he was regarded above all other servants in the household.

The servants felt a little slighted by Gale's attitude on his first day, and so they sent him to wait upon Mrs Mellark, knowing full well that she would not take kindly to him. She sat hunched over a small table, reading through the estate accounts, in one of the smaller sitting rooms on the first floor. Almost immediately, she requested a single glass of elderflower wine.

Gale descended to the cool dampness of the cellar and sought out the wine that Mrs Mellark had requested, pouring her a single measure into a cut crystal glass. He delicately balanced the glass on to a tray and returned to Mrs Mellark, setting the drink down beside her. With a well-practised flick of her wrist, she drank the entire glass in a single gulp, and demanded another.

He felt a rush of annoyance that she would send him back down to the cellar so soon, but bowed his head towards her and did as she asked. On his return, Mrs Mellark repeated her actions, knocking the drink back in one single swig, and demanded yet another glass. Three times in total she sent him back to the cellar for a single glass. When she asked for the fourth time, Gale could contain his anger no more. "Dear God, woman, why did you not ask for the bottle, then?" he snapped, finally losing his patience.

Mrs Mellark's eyes narrowed at the young servant, and if any other servants had been present to witness Gale's outburst, their fear for his safety would have shown on every one of their faces. Mrs Mellark's cold voice became as ice. "I am sorry," she began, "if my request is too much trouble for you."

"Of course not," sighed Gale. "But if it pleases you, this time I shall fetch the rest of the bottle."

The following day, Mrs Mellark had a special request of the new servant. She handed him a sealed envelope and requested that he deliver it directly to Mr Stannard of Garçon Brisé Farm. She gave him explicit instructions on how to reach Garçon Brisé Farm, as it could not be reached by the main road. It was vitally important that Mr Stannard receive this letter by the end of the day, and it was a twenty-mile ride so Gale would have to leave immediately. He was then to return directly home.

The weather was not in Gale's favour. The heavens had opened up, and icy sheets of water came down thick and fast over the heads of any unfortunate enough to be outside. But Gale did not care. He had already been entrusted with this vitally important task. And why should it be any other way?

He quickly saddled up one of the strongest horses in the stables and rode out into the bitter rain. With each passing mile, his discomfort grew and grew, but he rode on, determined to show Mrs Mellark that he could be trusted with such an important task.

The wind picked up, howling through trees and over moors, chilling Gale to his very core, but still he rode on, until he reached an apple orchard, precisely as Mrs Mellark had described. She had explained that to the immediate left of the orchard was a path that would convey Gale directly to Garçon Brisé Farm. However, as far as the eye could see, to the left of the orchard was thick with briars.

Gale followed the path a little further until a small village came in to view. Garçon Brisé Farm was nowhere to be seen, so he presumed that the path he required had merely become a little overgrown. Dismounting from his horse, he pulled a knife from one of the saddle bags, and began to hack at the briars.

It was slow work, and the briars tore at his clothes and skin, as the rain lashed down harder and faster than ever. He had already been soaked to the bone and chilled through for hours, and by the time Gale had managed to cut through the overgrown briars to the clear pathway on the other side, he was nearing collapse from exhaustion.

Eventually, as the sun hung low in the sky, Gale spied a small farm in the distance. He urged his horse on ever faster, desperate to complete his task at last. Tethering his horse at the gatepost, he peered through the rain at the welcoming glow coming from the farm's windows, and stumbled towards the front door. Leaning heavily against the door frame, he banged three times on the oak door and waited for a response.

After a few moments, a comely-looking woman opened the door, stopping short at the sight of the desperate-looking fellow on her doorstep. Suspicion mingled with a little fear clouded her features, and she closed the door slightly, ready to slam it shut if necessary. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"I'm looking for Mr Stannard," choked out Gale, shuddering with cold.

"Mr Stannard?" replied the woman.

"This is Garçon Brisé Farm, yes?"

"Who sent you?"

"Mrs Mellark of Woodhay Manor. I have an important letter to deliver to Mr Stannard."

Immediately the woman's aspect changed from one of suspicion to one of motherly pity. "Oh, my dear," she said, opening the front door wider, "you must have done something to upset her. My husband has been dead these last five years. Garçon Brisé Farm, you say? You don't speak French, I take it? I am sorry, my dear, but she has played a rather nasty trick on you. Garçon Brisé, indeed. Broken boy…. Come in, warm yourself."

She manoeuvred the shuffling and practically frozen Gale into her large and welcoming kitchen, and sat him at a seat in front of a roaring fire.

"I cannot stay," he said, his teeth chattering. "I was given instructions to deliver the letter and return immediately."

"Yes, and if you fail to return to her promptly, she will only make it worse. However, I cannot allow you to leave without giving you something to warm your cockles." She fussed over a large pan on a stove and poured Gale a steaming mug of broth, pressing it into his cold and shivering hands. "Drink this. I will not allow you to leave until every last drop is gone."

Only after she had forced a second mug of the piping hot broth into Gale, did Mrs Stannard allow him to leave. She offered him the sound advice to keep his head down and not offend his mistress again, lest her punishments become even more brutal, then helped him back out into the bitter weather.

It was lucky that his horse was a particularly hardy and clever beast, and knew the way home without requiring guidance, for after just a few miles Gale began to become delirious with the cold. It was nearing eleven o'clock at night by the time Gale finally returned to Woodhay Manor, slumped over the neck of his great horse. Thom, one of the other servants, helped him down and brought him inside, and Gale wanted nothing more than to be able to retire to his bed for the night, for he was already terribly feverish, but Thom whispered to him, "The mistress told us you're to go straight to her on your return. Just… try not to displease her again."

Unable to stand on his own, Thom aided Gale upstairs into Mrs Mellark's favourite sitting room. Thom propped Gale up in the corner, and risked incurring Mrs Mellark's wrath upon himself by saying to her, "Ma'am, he is unwell. Perhaps I could wait on you this evening instead?"

"No, Thom," she replied, a wicked smile on her face. "No, I am quite taken with this young man. And all he needs is a little fresh air. Open the window before you go, would you?"

Out of her spite, she was determined to further punish Gale for his impudence. While all the other servants knew that he needed warmth and bed rest, Mrs Mellark insisted upon Gale staying awake all night, next to an open window, ready to wait upon her whenever she required it.

The servants were convinced that come morning they would discover Gale's dead body. However, what Mrs Mellark hadn't counted upon was that he was young and strong, while she was old and weak, and the punishment that she meted out upon him, she partially shared. In the morning, Mrs Mellark was discovered frozen to death, while Gale desperately clung on to life.

It was not one of the servants who discovered the body of the dead mistress, as well as the slumped and prone form of Gale Hawthorne. The youngest master of the house, Peeta Mellark, had returned.

Peeta Mellark was one of those rare breeds of men to whom everything came easily. No matter what he turned his hand to, he found that it was a success, and yet nothing he had tried captured his heart. He was nearly thirty and still had no idea what he would do with his life; he could easily have gone into the church, like his eldest brother, or become a soldier, like his other brother, yet neither field excited his soul. And so he remained a constant source of disappointment to his mother, being both unemployed and unmarried.

When he discovered his mother's dead body, he was sympathetic over the loss of life, as he would be for anyone, but found his overwhelming feeling was one of relief rather than sadness. One of his first questions was to Thom, asking about the young man who was found with his mother.

"Gale Hawthorne, sir. He hasn't been here long, and I'm sorry to say he rather upset the mistress."

"I see. And so, my mother, being who she was, felt vengeance to be the most sensible course of action?"

Thom stumbled over his words, torn between his desire to speak the truth of Mrs Mellark's terrible punishment, and his fear of speaking ill against her in front of her son. "You may speak freely, Thom," smiled Mr Mellark. "There is little love lost between my mother and I."

After hearing of what his mother forced Gale to endure, Mr Mellark insisted on nursing Gale back to health himself. He found himself rather taken with the bold, young servant, whom he liked to refer to as 'St George.' When asked why by the other servants, he shrugged and said very simply, "George slayed the dragon."

\---------------------------------

Katniss Everdeen's return to life was truly remarkable. She was not just alive once more— she was _living_ more than any other young lady her age. If there was music and dancing, Miss Everdeen would be present, leading every one of the dances.

Naturally enough, Mr Everdeen was very quick to sing the praises of the noble magician who had restored his daughter to life. And members of London society were very quick to try and befriend the magician, to try and gain a certain amount of influence over him. Haymitch advised his master to be careful against the influx of people wishing to share in his glory, but two men managed to convince Mr Heavensbee that their own influence was so great, and that their friendship would be utterly invaluable. Mr Seneca Crane was gifted with enough of a silver tongue that he was soon able to worm his way into Mr Heavensbee's company as a trusted confidante, while Mr James Cato came from one of the richest and oldest families in Highgate, and his opinion was valued by most of society, regardless of whether or not it was correct.

These two men were of a kind that had always refused to take honest work. But while Mr Cato had been born into a life of idle pleasures, Mr Crane had to work at it. He lived on his wits, borrowing from one man to pay another, leading other men into debt in return for a small percentage, profiting from the vice and ruination of others.

Very soon, Mr Heavensbee was inundated with requests from the government to aid them with magic. They had seen how successful Miss Everdeen's resurrection had been, and so naturally their first ideas were of a similar nature. Many great men in government debated back and forth over who the best person to bring back would be. Eventually it was settled that Mr Pitt the Younger, the greatest Prime Minister England had ever known, as well as Lord Nelson, would both be ideal candidates in the fight against Napoleon Bonaparte.

It was put to Mr Heavensbee that more resurrections had been requested by the government, and naturally enough, Mr Heavensbee paled terribly at the suggestion. He had not wished to employ a single fairy once, but the idea of re-employing them? It was far too dangerous! Imagine then his relief when he heard precisely which persons the government wished to restore to life! The degenerated states of the corpses provided him with the perfect excuse not to perform the magic that had been requested of him.

Mr Crane was, as always, the first to offer his opinion.

"My dear Mr Heavensbee," he began, "you cannot continue to turn down these requests! Your benevolence at restoring Miss Everdeen to life is, of course, well known, but you cannot be known for just one act!"

Mr Heavensbee, Mr Crane and Mr Cato were taking tea in Mr Heavensbee's drawing room. Haymitch observed the gentlemen from a shadowy corner in the room, an amused and ironic expression on his face as he listened to the three of them talk.

"Of course," continued Mr Crane, "I have been very quick to sing your praises to anyone who will care to listen, and to describe in great detail some of your past great feats of magic."

"Some of my past great feats?" said Mr Heavensbee incredulously. "Such as what, precisely?"

"Well," said Mr Crane, "of course I have been forced to embellish a few incidences. But you see, Mr Heavensbee, people want spectacle! They wish to hear of you riding into battle, your fairy servants at your side—"

"Fairy servants?" interrupted Mr Heavensbee, "Riding into battle? No, no, no, this will not do. It is precisely these romanticised and violent associations with magic that I wish to dispel!"

"Still," said Mr Cato in a bored voice, "you cannot expect to obtain glory by riding out the success of one single act." At this Mr Heavensbee opened his mouth, presumably to protest that actually he had given two demonstrations, but before he could continue, Mr Cato began to speak again, in his same bored drawl. "Have you considered contacting the Navy? I have a very foolish cousin who signed his life away for the notion of England's glory, and I am forever receiving very tiresome letters about their troubles and difficulties. I am sure you could find a way to aid them."

Mr Heavensbee's eyes lit up. Here was a real opportunity. "Would we be able to borrow these letters? I should like to have Haymitch study them further. If we could understand the precise difficulties presented to the Navy, perhaps we could indeed aid them in their struggles."

Three weeks later, a young French officer woke up in the early hours of the morning and looked out to sea in the French Naval port of Brest. And his heart nearly stopped at what he saw. A hundred English battleships had set up a blockade around the port. It was normal to see maybe four or five ships, but a hundred! It was unheard of!

But this wasn't the only strange thing about the ships. They shone and sparkled in the sunlight, and some men swore that they had witnessed the ships rise up out of the Atlantic itself in the dead of night. They appeared to be made, not of wood, but of a shimmering grey metal.

Being a naturally superstitious people, the French feared that these were the ghosts of every English ship they had ever sunk, returned from Hell to seek vengeance, and so they watched and waited. Meanwhile, news began to reach them from other ports. Similar blockades had been set up all along the French coast. It appeared that more English ships were currently in French waters than could possibly have ever existed!

After eight days in which no French ship dared to sail out to greet the English, one particularly brave (or foolish!) sailor declared that he would take a small boat out to inspect the English ships. He was small enough that he could slip between the ships unnoticed and would die rather than spill France's secrets if captured.

As he neared the ships he noticed that they were not made of metal, as they originally appeared, nor were these ghost ships. The ships had been crafted from the sea itself and some were beginning to melt back into it. The French sailor had no idea who could have built the ships, but whoever he was, he was a clearly a master seasmith.

Not long after the ships were discovered to be made of the sea did they begin to collapse back into it. The English Navy were as overjoyed at the turn of events as the French were furious. For well over a week they had been able to sail unhindered, drop spies into port, and bring others home to report on their findings. It was a great morale boost for the English and a terrible blow to Bonaparte.

Back in London, Mr Heavensbee's name was shouted from the rooftops. Here was a second time that he was able to prove his usefulness, and this time without the aid of any wicked fairy-beings. This was the kind of magic he had come to London to show. This was practical, useful and above all respectable magic.

In various publications, Mr Heavensbee's opinions on magic began to appear. He was exceptionally vocal in decrying the magicians of the past who had consorted with Otherworlders, almost as vocal as he was in decrying the fairies themselves. Most of all he spoke out against the Raven King, which surprised most people, all of whom had grown up listening to stories of the Raven King's incredible beauty and power.

Indeed, the only person who did not seem surprised at Mr Heavensbee's opinion was also his most famous subject. Miss Everdeen was almost as vocal about magic as Mr Heavensbee was. "Why!" she would say to anyone who cared to listen, "Mr Heavensbee knows more of magic than anyone else in the land. And if he says that the Raven King was a thoroughly un-English monster whose memory deserves to be forgotten, then who are we to question him?"

With his opinion becoming widely known about fairies, Mr Heavensbee set out on another of his tasks to make magic respectable; to rid London of the scourge of street-magicians.

Heavy handed law-enforcers were sent out to find the little booths littered about the streets where the false magicians sold pretend spells, fake amulets of protection and invented radical prophecies. Almost all reluctantly agreed to abandon the pretence of magicianship; after all, they could make just as much money as beggars and considerably more so as pick-pockets, and they didn't need to go to the extra effort of inventing these wild fantasies.

One street magician, however, refused to denounce his old ways. Marvel sat behind the filthy yellow curtain of his booth and risked a beating and a day in the stocks by declaring that he would not move on until he was granted an audience with the famous Mr Heavensbee.

Mr Heavensbee scorned to hear such a request, and Marvel's booth, from which he had sold his prophecies for over twenty years, was smashed to the ground.

One evening the winds blew bitterly hard against Mr Heavensbee's windowpanes, and as he studied a passage in A Faire Woode Withering, he thought he might like to take a cup or two of chocolate to warm his bones. He rang for Haymitch to attend him, but to no avail. He rang for one of his footmen to wait on him, but no one came. Just as Mr Heavensbee was about to rise from his studies he noticed a movement in the corner of his room. "Fetch me a pot of chocolate, would you?" he spoke to the moving figure.

The figure stepped into the light and Mr Heavensbee was filled with fear to see, not one of his servants, but a gaunt figure with a terrible aspect. He was all skin and bones, and much taller than average, and he wore upon his face an ironic smirk. "I have long waited to behold you, magician!" spoke the creature.

"Haymitch?" called Mr Heavensbee. "Haymitch, come now!"

"Two magicians will rise, one from the North and one from the South," said Marvel, for it was he.

"Oh, prophecies is it?" said Mr Heavensbee. "Well, you should know that I hold absolutely no stock in such mystical nonsense! Haymitch? Haymitch?"

"Do not turn your back on your true King, magician! He knows! All magic belongs to him, and he knows!"

"Prophecies _and_ the Raven King! You will be sorry you ever saw fit to break in here, wretch! Haymitch!"

At that moment the door to Mr Heavensbee's library flew open, and framed in the portal was Haymitch, looking vaguely amused by the sight of Mr Heavensbee's fear. He was soon able to overpower Marvel, wrestling him out of the room, while all the time Marvel shouted to Mr Heavensbee not to ignore the importance of the Raven King.

Back and forth across the floor of his library paced Mr Heavensbee in nervous agitation until Haymitch returned to him.

"What do I employ you for if not to stop entry to those who mean me harm? What did he want? How did he get in? And why did you not come immediately when I rang for you? Or any of the other servants? Why should I not fire you immediately?"

Haymitch raised an eyebrow at his master. It was not the first time he had listened patiently to one of Mr Heavensbee's rants, and he was certain it would not be the last. Taking a deep breath, Haymitch spoke, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that eluded his master. "That man did you no harm other than stealing a meat pie, a wheel of cheese, and a bottle of claret. I think it pretty clear what he wanted: to tell you not to ignore the Raven King. He came in through the back door, forcing entry when only the maid was in the kitchen and unable to stop him. Neither myself or any of the other servants came immediately because he cut the lines that ring the bells for us." He shrugged. "As for a reason as to why you should not fire me, well…. It's up to you. But you should remember that no one else knows your business as well as I."

Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of his fingernail for a moment or two. "This maid who allowed him entry, who is she?"

"Her name is Rue. She's been with us nearly three weeks."

"Tell her to seek employment elsewhere."

"Ah yes. Because, of course, any fifteen year old girl should be able to single-handedly fight a man nearly thrice her age and twice her height. I shall tell her to pack her bags tonight."

Seeing that his master was somewhat satisfied, Haymitch descended to the kitchen, where Rue was still greatly shaken from her encounter with Marvel. Instead of telling her she would be leaving Mr Heavensbee's employ, he sought out a bottle of Port from Mr Heavensbee's cellar, opened it, and shared a glass with the girl to soothe her nerves. There was no question in Haymitch's mind that she would continue to work here. What Mr Heavensbee didn't know wouldn't harm him.

He also decided it best not to tell his master that before his expulsion from Mr Heavensbee's London home, Marvel had told Haymitch that he would now be leaving London of his own volition, in order to seek out a second magician in order to tell him his fortune.

\---------------------------------

Cinna Black was highly unusual amongst the servants of the upper classes in London. Very few households would think to employ a Negro servant, and those that did would never elevate said servant to the highly important position of Butler. However, Cinna was highly respected in the Everdeen household, and his hard work and quiet, solicitous nature had garnered him a strong reputation amongst other households too.

Lately, he had heard whispers from some of the other servants that Miss Everdeen should have been allowed to die peacefully, that she was now a cursed and unnatural being. Even Madge, whom had attended on Miss Everdeen for many years, became fearful whenever she spent too much time in Miss Everdeen's rooms. She complained to Cinna that she could hear a sad and lonely bell tolling, as if from a great distance, and that it made her melancholy to hear it.

Although Cinna could hear no such bell, nor feel the sadness that its tolling brought, it appeared that Miss Everdeen could. In the weeks after her return to life, Miss Everdeen was as lively as he had ever seen her, but a fatigue began to overtake her. She soon began declining invitations to parties, complaining that she was forced to dance all night every night, and saw no reason to do it during the day as well. No one was able to explain Miss Everdeen's sudden aversion to dancing and music, which were both pastimes she had always loved. She began to forbid Primrose from playing the pianoforte whenever she was near. And slowly but surely, she began to slip from society until barely three months after her remarkable resurrection, only her dear friend Miss Annie Cresta would continue to visit her. Most of the time, when Miss Cresta paid her a visit, she would find Katniss seated alone, perfectly straight-backed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring wistfully out of the window.

Poor Annie would spend hours at a time in Miss Everdeen's company, telling her about the balls she had attended, and of course about her growing friendship with Mr Odair.

"My dear Katniss, he is such a charming gentleman. I do hope you will meet him again someday. Do you remember meeting him before? You were very much ill when he first came to visit. He has not yet made any promises to me, but I feel it may well only be a matter of time. My father is very much taken with him. Oh, and you will be very interested to hear this! He is a magician!"

At her words, Katniss' eyes widened in terror. "Annie, my dear, you cannot trust him! Magicians are all the same. Liars and scoundrels!"

"But surely you of all people cannot truly believe that!" declared Annie, resting her hand on top of Katniss'. "Why, you owe your very life to one from that noble profession!"

"I owe him naught but my misery," said Katniss, "and when I tell you what he has done, you too will surely understand!" She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and clutched tightly to Annie's hand. "In the village of Castella di Barti, there stands a beautiful church. The very foundations have been in place since the time of Caesar. The stones in the foundations were made when the tears of a beautiful virgin slave girl hit the bare earth, and as such, her sadness remained a part of the church itself. That sadness is, to this day, passed on to anyone who enters the church. As soon as one walks through the door, one finds oneself singing an ancient and sad song, and all who hear it are forever caught in its spell, and will never be able to speak again without being overcome by unbearable sadness. Anyone attending the sermons has to agree to have their ears cut off before entering, to prevent the curse from spreading!"

As soon as she finished speaking, a look of embarrassed horror passed over her face, and her head fell into her palms as she began to cry. "That was not what I intended to say," she wept. "I must try again." With another deep breath, Katniss began to speak. This time she recounted the tale of a feisty young milkmaid. Her cow had been missing for five days, and was eventually found underneath a rainbow. When the milk from this cow was drunk, it gave her the ability to hear the thoughts of a dashing farmhand that she had her eye on. But the farmhand was in love with a poor washerwoman from town. In a fit of jealousy, the milkmaid strangled the washerwoman and confessed her love to the farmhand. But in her absence, the farmhand had also drunk the cow's milk, and could hear her thoughts. In vengeance he killed the milkmaid, and the cow to be safe.

Once again, as soon as she had finished her strange tale, Katniss broke down in tears.

Cinna overheard this conversation and shook his head sadly, before heading back towards the kitchens. Once there, he could hear the tolling of a bell, as if from a great distance. It was not a bell he had heard before and could not have come from any of the nearby churches, and as such its origin puzzled him greatly. It could not be coming from any of the bells installed in the house. He looked up and the row of bells in the kitchen, and at the labels on each of them. _The Parisian Drawing Room, The Green Drawing Room, The Music Room, The Library, Mr Everdeen's Bed Chamber, Mr Everdeen's Dressing Room, Miss Everdeen's Bed Chamber, Miss Everdeen's Dressing Room, Miss Primrose's Bed Chamber, Miss Primrose's Dressing Room, Panem._

The bell labelled _Panem_ was the one ringing, and Cinna shook his head as if to try and disperse the sad sound. He stared at the label. _Panem?_ It was not a room he could recall seeing before, and yet he was being summoned towards it. His instincts as a servant kicked in, and he left the kitchen to try and find this mysterious room. All of a sudden, he discovered that he did not recognise the corridor he was in. Instead of feeling concerned at this turn of events, he merely felt intrigue, and perhaps a little annoyance that Darius, the head gardener, had neglected his duties and allowed the trees to grow so close to the windows. This intrigued him further; there should have been no trees in the vicinity at all, but there they were, as clear as day.

The trees had an ancient, un-English look to them, as if not only did they not belong in the vicinity, but they did not belong in this time or land at all. Again, this did not concern him, and he felt merely intrigue at their strange appearance. After all, he thought, he did not belong in this land either, and yet here he was. 

At the end of the corridor, a door was slightly ajar, and he could hear movement behind it. Curiosity at the appearance of this new area of the house got the better of him, and he pushed the door fully open. 

Inside, a gentleman with snow-white hair was in a state of undress. 

"Where have you been?" demanded the gentleman. "I have been here, summoning a servant for as long as I care to remember! Dress me!" 

Cinna hurriedly stepped forward. This was not a guest he had seen in Mr Everdeen's home before, and he could not recall any instructions from Mr Everdeen that any guests would be staying, but it was not his place to question the appearance of the gentleman. 

This was where Cinna felt most natural: helping gentlemen into their exquisite clothes, and this particular gentleman had, quite simply, the most beautiful clothes he had seen. The gentleman's shirt had been laundered to a gleaming, shining white, his black boots shone and reflected the ceiling above him, and his rich velvet coat was of the deepest blood red he had ever seen. 

From the pocket of his velvet coat, the gentleman with the snow-white hair withdrew an unusual box. The box was decorated with a beautiful opal that was of a colour Cinna had never seen before. As he stared at this opal, he felt a curious tugging in his chest. Suddenly, he keenly felt the loss of his mother, who had died shortly after giving birth to him whilst being transported from their homeland in Africa. He felt the desperation of his fellow countrymen who were unlucky enough to be taken to America, where they would be forced into slavery. In short, the opal reminded him of all the heartbreak and sadness in the world, and in particular that which had been inflicted upon him. 

Tearing his gaze away from the opal and turning his attention back to adjusting the gentleman's cravat, Cinna said, "That is a rather beautiful looking box, sir, if I may say so." 

"It certainly is," replied the gentleman, "and it contains my most valuable treasure. Would you like to see?" 

"If you would care to show me, I would be honoured." 

The gentleman smiled and opened the box, and Cinna was momentarily shocked to see a lady's finger, perfectly preserved, nestled inside the box as if it were a brooch or necklace. He thought of Miss Everdeen, missing her smallest finger, and the sense of melancholy and heartbreak that surrounded her. But almost as soon as these thoughts entered his mind, they began to grow indistinct. Suddenly it seemed perfectly natural for the gentleman to be carrying a box the colour of heartbreak that contained a lady's finger. Surely this was nothing out of the ordinary, and a lady's severed finger was something all gentlemen carried? 

"I can see why you treasure it so highly, sir," commented Cinna, as he brushed down the shoulders of the gentleman's coat. 

"Oh!" exclaimed the gentleman once he was fully dressed, looking at himself and Cinna in the mirror, "but I had mistaken you for a servant! My humblest apologies!" 

"You were not mistaken, sir. I am but a servant here." 

"Pish and nonsense," said the gentleman, waving his hand dismissively. "Look." He gestured towards the mirror, and Cinna turned to see what the gentleman with snow-white hair could see. "What a fine pair we make. A man as beautiful and noble as you should never be a servant. You could be a prince. Why, maybe even a king!" 

A strange trick of the light seemed to place a thin, golden diadem across Cinna's brow. He reached up to touch the crown and was almost surprised to find that it was not there. He turned away from the duplicitous reflection, back to the gentleman. "I truly am flattered, sir, but a man such as myself could never be a king. Least of all in this country." 

"England has never known what is best for her. Look at who she has for a king now! An old, fat madman! Why, Cinna, if I were to present you to the people of England, and ask who they would prefer, they would be bound to choose you!" 

Cinna could not remember ever having introduced himself by name and he marvelled at how the gentleman knew him. But one thing was for certain. "I fear you are mistaken, sir," he said. "If there is one thing I know about this country, it is that they would never accept a black-skinned man as their king." 

"Oh, they will, my dear Cinna. It is simple enough. All you would need to do is kill their current king. Whoever kills a king is automatically his successor." 

A terrible chill passed over the room at the gentleman's words. If Cinna were to be discovered discussing the murder of any white man, he would be sentenced to death without trial, but to be discussing treason? He feared the English would find a way to punish his soul for eternity. He looked in the mirror once again, and was disturbed to see that his reflection still wore a crown. 

"Thank you for your kindness, sir," said Cinna, backing out of the room. "I must be returning to my duties." 

"I will see you tonight, my dear Cinna," said the gentleman, smiling broadly. As Cinna bowed and took his leave, he was almost overcome with an otherworldly smell of blood and roses. 

_\---------------------------_

With no other occupation to take up his time, Peeta Mellark enjoyed taking Victor, his prized chestnut-coloured horse for long rides. Gale would take Flint, a dappled-grey, and load the saddle bags with heavy drawing paper and charcoals. If, on their rides, they came across a particularly pleasant or interesting panorama, they would stop so that Peeta could sketch the view. This was a pastime that used to particularly irk Peeta's late mother, and he felt that continuing to draw was a perfect way to honour her memory. 

It was a sublime spring morning. The sun shone brightly in the pale blue sky, causing the frost that clung to the blossoms littering the branches of the trees and each individual blade of grass to sparkle like diamonds. The two men had stopped so that Peeta might draw the village that lay nestled in a valley below them. Both men were beginning to feel the cold seeping into their bones when Peeta spotted a strange sight. Stumbling towards them, over the hard, frozen ground, was what looked like a bundle of rags that had sprouted legs. 

"What do you suppose that could be, George?" asked Peeta, pocketing the small piece of charcoal and pointing in the direction of the moving figure. 

Whatever the ghastly apparition was, it seemed to be moving with real purpose towards them, and Gale felt a sense of cold dread as he watched. His hand found its way to resting on the handle of the blade he carried with him at all times. "Until we are certain, stay back, sir," he answered. 

"I don't expect there will be any need for that," laughed Peeta, although Gale was certain that he could detect just the slightest hint of nervousness in his words. 

"As a child, I heard strange tales of demonic creatures roaming these hills. These black demons would lure lone travellers into bogs where they would be trapped and would never be seen again." 

"Then let us be grateful that we are not alone." 

As the figure approached, both men were able to make out that this was not a demon after all, but rather a strange-looking man. Tall and skeletal, the skin that was visible had a bizarre appearance, as if it were translucent and all his veins were visible underneath, shining blue. Marvel had found his quarry at last. 

"I've been looking for you, magician!" he shouted as he approached. "You are not an easy man to track!" 

Peeta and Gale both turned on the spot, expecting to see this mysterious magician behind them, and were both a little surprised and confused to find themselves alone. 

"Which of you is it?" said the ghastly-looking man as he came closer. His eyes darted back and forth between the two men as he waited for an answer. 

"I think you must be mistaken," said Peeta. "There is no magician here." He looked with pity at the creature, as a particularly bitter wind blew. 

Marvel bowed low and said, "I am not mistaken." Standing up once more, he made a flourish and said, "I am known on the streets of London as The Great Marvel. Prophecies are my forte, and it is my destiny to tell the Southern Magician his." 

Peeta dug deep into his pockets and withdrew a purse full of florins, tossing it towards the poor man. "Here," he said. "There is an inn in the village where you will be able to get a hot bath and some food. No man should be wandering these hills in this weather, dressed as you are. At the inn, tell them that Peeta Mellark sent you, and that he wishes for them to send for the cobbler and tailor to redress you." 

A wide smile passed over the face of the piteous creature, and he bowed his head towards Peeta pocketing the coins as he did so. "I have waited my entire life to meet you, Mr Mellark. I have something for you." The wretch reached inside his own coat pocket. As he did so, Gale's hand tightened around the hilt of his knife, but there was no threat. From the ragged coat, an equally ragged scrap of paper was withdrawn and held out towards Peeta. 

Warily, he took the proffered piece of paper and unravelled it. Written in spiky, childish lettering were the words, ' _A spel to see my enermees._ ' Underneath this, in strange, broken English, were the instructions to fill a silver bowl with water, and a description of the hand gestures required to pass over it. "Is this a joke of some kind?" Peeta asked, looking up from the paper. 

"No," replied Marvel. "I have a message for you as well, magician. The day will come when you need to remember this." He pulled up the sleeve of his dirty overcoat, revealing the tattoos that covered his arms, and when he next spoke he appeared to be reading directly from his arm. " _Speak to the stones. Speak to the sky. Speak to the water. Speak to the trees. Speak and they will listen. Speak and they will answer."_

"I think you must be mistaken," said Peeta. "I am no magician." 

"Yes," replied Marvel, "you are." He spun on his heels and walked directly away from Peeta and Gale, back towards the village. 

Peeta and Gale watched the strange man retreat for several minutes before either of them spoke. 

"What do you suppose he possibly meant by that?" asked Gale, turning towards his master. 

"I have no idea," replied Peeta, still studying the strange scrap of paper. Folding it over twice, he secreted it away in his inner coat pocket. Suddenly the winter sun appeared to exude even less warmth than it had previously, and a shiver passed over the back of his neck. "Let us get back home," he said, looking around at the glittering landscape. "Outdoors has suddenly lost its appeal." 

The vagabond's strange words repeated over and over in his mind, and he mounted his steed and rode hard, as if speed could somehow distance him from the ominous divination. 

In his drawing room, Peeta paced back and forth. Over and over again he read the scrap of paper, shaking his head at the ridiculous notion. Everyone knew that magic no longer worked. He had heard rumours of a gentleman from Yorkshire who had travelled to London who claimed that he could make ancient spells work, but personally he thought these rumours were very much exaggerated. 

"Gale," he called out, and immediately his servant knew that this request was bound to be serious if Peeta was using his Christian name. "Gale, fetch me a silver bowl and a jug of water." 

"You aren't serious, sir?" remarked Gale. "You can't possibly think it will work?" 

"I believe there is only one way to know for certain," he responded, before he resumed his agitated pacing. 

When Gale returned with the bowl and water, Peeta instructed him to set them down on the sideboard. He half-filled the bowl with water and studied the instructions once again before passing his hand over the surface of the water three times. 

Lights glittered and flickered and moved over the surface of the water, giving it the impression of a burning piece of paper, and when the surface had stopped mimicking fire it no longer appeared to be reflecting the room they were standing in. Both Peeta and Gale gaped at the bowl of water. The room in the water was well proportioned and lined with books. A middle-aged man was hunched double, his face hidden and his nose inches from the page of a book, while a candle beside him burnt low. 

"Who is he?" asked Gale. 

"I haven't the foggiest of ideas," replied Peeta, shaking his head and looking at the piece of paper with the scribbled spell once more. "According to this, he is my enemy, but I have never before seen him. How can a man I have never met be my enemy? And besides, I am not in the habit of collecting enemies. Perhaps I did something incorrectly?" 

"Well, sir, whether or not you did it incorrectly, you did magic. I am impressed, and I don't say that lightly!" 

"True, George, true. Perhaps I have found my calling at last. It is a shame the dragon is no longer here to witness this!" 


	3. Chapter 3

Once a notion lodged itself into Peeta Mellark's heart and mind, it was difficult for him to think on anything else. Since he had conjured up the vision of the unknown man in the bowl of water, he had gained a thirst for magical knowledge that could not be satiated. He sent messages to every bookseller he could think of, requesting any and all magical texts.

And yet he appeared to be thwarted at each and every turn. With each request sent to booksellers and publishers to sell anything even vaguely magical to Mr Mellark of Woodhay Manor, the same reply was returned: the seller or publisher would send their kind regards to Mr Mellark to thank him for his patronage, but that they regretted they could not assist him on this occasion. All their books related to the magical arts had been bought by another gentleman. A message would be sent back in return by Mr Mellark, asking the name of this esteemed gentleman. And the same reply would come back to him each time: the books had been purchased by the famous London magician, Mr Heavensbee.

Frustration at every corner! And yet… there were times when Mr Mellark began to wonder if his quest for books was even necessary. Sometimes he would close his eyes, and a prompting from the darkness would appear to whisper to him. He would open his eyes and follow the strange barely audible instructions, turning a wooden humidor into crystal, causing dandelions to shoot up between the floorboards, and on one occasion, making a fine china tea-set dance across the kitchen table. But this natural talent was not enough for him. He needed understanding.

"These parlour tricks are all well and good," he sighed to Gale. "And perhaps they could delight impressionable young women, but what use are they?"

"If I may be so bold, sir, many people would say that delighting impressionable young women is a very useful skill."

"Very true, George," he laughed, "but I would hope that my skills would amount to more than that." He sat down heavily, while Gale poured him a cup of tea, and picked up the periodical that had been delivered that morning. The headline on _The Times_ read _'FRENCH NAVY CONFOUNDED ONCE AGAIN THANKS TO ENGLISH MAGICIAN._ ' Mr Mellark's heart pounded in his chest, as if trying to escape its earthly confines. He continued to read, _'All English citizens must extend their warmest thanks to Mr Heavensbee for his continued efforts in the war. The revival of English magic gives each and every one of us hope for the future, as the war finally turns in Britannia's favour.'_

"Gale," said Mr Mellark, putting the paper down and turning in seriousness towards his manservant. "How would you feel about leaving Sussex behind in favour of London?"

A frown crossed Gale's brow. "If you choose to go, of course I will aid you. But personally I have never liked the capital."

"And why is that?"

"The people are disingenuous, sir. They waste their time on frivolities, while sending young men from other counties off to die in this war." Gale began to pace back and forth, forgetting his manners, his voice becoming more and more heated. "When did you last hear of young London men having the king's shilling forced upon them? While others are sent to die, they drink and dance and gamble and—"

"Gale," interrupted Mr Mellark, his tone kindly, "have you lost someone close to you?"

Gale turned away from his master and took a deep breath before speaking. "My younger brother, sir. He was accosted in a tavern. He was made drunk and took the shilling without considering the consequences. I understand that he was shot in the head during a skirmish in Switzerland."

Mr Mellark spoke into the terse silence that followed. "You have my deepest sympathies. My older brother is a soldier, and not a day goes past when I don't expect to receive a letter informing me of his death. But, you see, this is precisely why I feel I should go to London. If I can help stop this war, if somehow my talents can be used to save brothers, fathers, uncles and sons from a needless death, then I must go." He held up the periodical so that Gale could see the article on the other magician. "This man could teach me to hone these skills into something useful. He has all the books I could study and learn from."

"You are set on leaving then?"

Mellark closed his eyes momentarily, took a deep breath, and picked up his cup of tea. He tapped it once on the side, causing ripples to spread across the surface, and once they subsided, the liquid within had become a much darker, richer brown. The cup now contained coffee. He tapped it again, and the liquid turned thicker and creamier. One more tap and the chocolate turned back into golden-brown tea. He shook his head at the futility of such tricks and placed the cup back down again. "Really," he sighed, "I don't see that I have much of a choice."

\----------------------------------------

Katniss Everdeen's condition appeared to be worsening day by day. The physician who had cared for her while she suffered from consumption, Dr Aurelius, was summoned once again. But despite all his examinations, the only physical ailment he could find was a chill to her skin.

"Mr Everdeen," he said, taking Miss Everdeen's father to one side, "this seems to me to be more of a spiritual affliction than a physical malady. Really, she is in perfect health."

"But how can she be in perfect health? She never moves from that window seat. She never initiates conversation and only speaks if prompted. She has an aversion to music, dancing, and society that she never had before. She is listless and saddened by every single suggestion—"

"Mr Everdeen, in my work I encounter many young women. They are frivolous creatures and can be very irrational. The cause of her distress may be something very simple that you or I would overlook. Perhaps the young lady had her heart set on a particular dress or bonnet. Perhaps she asked you for it and was denied. That being, would it not be better to simply to buy her the item she wants?"

Mr Everdeen fought hard to keep the anger from his voice. "My daughter is not one to give up on life purely because she has not been bought a dress! If you believe that of her, you clearly think very low of her, sir!"

"Of course," backtracked Dr Aurelius. "Please accept my apologies. But I will stand by my prognosis. Her affliction is not physical. Perhaps you would do well to consult a priest?"

Mr Everdeen held modern—and quite radical—views on religion and muttered that he would certainly consider it an option before he dismissed the good doctor. With sadness in his eyes, he looked towards the window seat where his younger daughter and Miss Cresta were talking to Miss Everdeen in the hopes of sparking some warmth in her.

"My dear heart," Miss Primrose began, "it pains me so to see you this way. Will you not take a walk with me?"

"Why should I want to walk?" sighed Miss Everdeen. "I will be kept on my feet all night. Allow me at least this time to rest!"

"Are you quite sure I could not play for you? Your smile would light up the room whenever I played before."

"No! Music is detestable! I wonder what enjoyment I ever gained from such pastimes, for it certainly gives me no pleasure now!"

Miss Primrose turned and dried her eyes on the corner of a silk handkerchief, while Miss Cresta took Miss Everdeen's hands into her own. "Would you take some tea? Or some chocolate perhaps? You are so bitterly cold to the touch, and it pains me to see you so uncomfortable."

"What is the point? Whatever comforts I am provided with now will not prevent me dancing all night, nor taking part in these dreary, endless processions, nor having to watch the terrible and violent spectacles provided for us."

"You have been having night terrors, then?"

"If only they were," lamented Miss Everdeen, "for then I would merely have to wake up." She took a deep breath and reached out towards her sister and friend, clutching their hands in her own. "I shall try again to tell you what has happened, although I am afraid that it will do no good. In the heart of Africa there dwells a tribe that have such skills at cloth making that they are able to weave the sun itself into the fabrics they make. The patterns in the cloth glow and radiate warmth and…. No! This is not right! Let me try again. Many people are unaware that the tree of knowledge, originally found in Eden and responsible for the fall of man, exists today. It still bears fruit as red as rubies and as sweet as nectar, and a single bite has the power to….." She stopped speaking abruptly, horror at her own words written all over her face. "I cannot speak. He will not allow me!"

"Who, dear heart? Who will not allow you?"

Miss Everdeen looked over Miss Primrose's shoulder. "Him."

With a start, Miss Primrose turned around, and Miss Cresta shot a glance in the direction that Miss Everdeen was pointing. But there was no one there. Miss Everdeen's head fell into her hands and she began to weep in earnest.

Mr Everdeen stormed away from the sight of his daughter's distress and into the drawing room, where Mr Odair and Sir Adam Cresta were awaiting him.

"There is no improvement," he bemoaned. "Dr Aurelius claims that there is nothing wrong with her, and yet there it is for all the world to see. She has already suffered more than most, and I cannot bear to see her so in pain! Give me an occupation so that I may help her!"

Mr Odair looked up from the book he was reading and said slowly and thoughtfully, "Mr Everdeen, I have been thinking… perhaps Miss Everdeen is beyond the reach of medicine, beyond even the reach of the church. She owes her life to magic. Perhaps magic, therefore, is the only cure for her. Have you thought to send for Mr Heavensbee?"

"Do you believe he could help? Have you come across incidences such as this in your studies?"

"I regret to say, sir, that I have not. But I am a poor scholar with no materials. Mr Heavensbee on the other hand… if anyone is to know whether Miss Everdeen's malaise has a magical cause, it will be Mr Heavensbee."

It seemed such an obvious answer to the problem that almost everyone wondered why they had not thought of the magician immediately. The truth was that Mr Everdeen was not entirely sure that he liked magic, being that he was a man of science and reason, but he knew that he certainly did not like Mr Heavensbee. Despite the fact that his daughter owed Mr Heavensbee her life, Mr Everdeen could not bring himself to like the man. He found the magician to be officious, unhelpful and rather arrogant. He knew, however, that his was not in the least a popular opinion in government, given that every week Mr Heavensbee successfully cast some new miracle to aid the Navy. And so he had learned to keep his opinions to himself.

Mr Odair was quite correct however: Miss Everdeen's affliction was more likely to be related to magic than anything else. If Mr Heavensbee could just tweak the spell he used to bring her back, perhaps her spirits would once again be lifted. That very day, Mr Heavensbee was summoned once again, but he did not have good news for Mr Everdeen.

"I assure you, sir," he said, "that whatever is causing Miss Everdeen's melancholy, its root cause is not magical. Indeed, even suggesting as such is a form of heresy. Of course, this particular law has fallen by the wayside. However, there was a time that inferring that a person who had been cured by magical means was no longer subject to God's law was a severe crime. This was known as the Meraudian Heresy and was punishable by death!"

And so Miss Everdeen was left to her bitter sadness. No one in the Everdeen household appeared to notice, however, that the same terrible listlessness that surrounded Miss Everdeen was also afflicting the servant, Cinna. What was classed as an illness in Miss Everdeen was attributed to mere low spirits in Cinna. No one ever considered that their maladies were linked.

Back in his rooms in Hanover Square, Mr Heavensbee locked himself away in his library, sending Haymitch away. When he was certain that he was quite alone and could not be overheard, he muttered an ancient name under his breath. Immediately there was a strange shift in reality, as if a second, unseen world occupied the same space as the first.

"I am pleased to see that you have changed you mind about working with me," said the gentleman with snow-white hair.

"Nothing has changed," snapped Mr Heavensbee, "and with your trickery, you could have undone everything I have worked for!"

As before, when the gentleman angered, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Where before the room was temperate and comfortable, now Mr Heavensbee was able to see the fog of his own breath hanging in the air before him. "My trickery?" laughed the gentleman coldly. " _My trickery_? I have done nothing but what was asked of me!"

"When you said you would take half her life, I thought you meant half of her remaining years! I did not think you were condemning her to this….this…. _mockery_ of an existence! Restore her at once!"

"I have taken nothing that was not rightfully promised to me! Although perhaps I could restore her if you meet my original price. Tell the world your power comes from me."

"Never! Your price is too high!"

"Then it is you that condemns her. Not me."

Mr Heavensbee closed his eyes as the room around him appeared to swim. He had worked hard to get to this position, but if his duplicity in using a fairy was ever discovered, it would undo everything. And yet…. The girl herself seemed unable to speak of her enchantment. Perhaps it would be best if she were not restored after all. As long as no one suspected Mr Heavensbee of deceit, what was the harm? "What is the fate of one girl compared to the restoration of magic?" muttered Mr Heavensbee to himself, before turning to the gentleman with snow-white hair. "Be gone, demon."

The temperature dropped even further as the gentleman slowly faded into invisibility. As he did so, the glass in Mr Heavensbee's ornate mirror cracked before the whole thing shattered outwards, showering him in tiny fragments. Mr Heavensbee had just enough time to cast a spell of protection over himself to prevent any injury, but he was left shaken and terrified. He ordered Haymitch to bring him brandy and gave him explicit instructions to not disturb him for the rest of the evening. Calming his nerves was not an easy task, and every time Mr Heavensbee caught his reflection in a pane of glass, his gave a nervous start, convinced that the gentleman with snow-white hair was behind him, invisible, but present nonetheless.

\----------------------------------------

Finnick Odair could not understand Miss Everdeen's affliction. For a few short weeks after her resurrection, she had been the life and soul of every party, a promising future ahead of her but now…. As the months progressed it became clear that the cold, young woman who stared blankly out of the window and sat all day at her window-seat would be unlikely to ever find a happy marriage, destined forever to a life of solitude.

And seeing her dearest friend in a state of such deep melancholy left Miss Cresta with a kind of second-hand sadness, and this was breaking Mr Odair's heart. He decided to take a walk in Hyde Park to try and clear his mind.

Suddenly Mr Odair was overcome by a strange sense of magic happening, as if a second world was occupying the space of the visible world around him. He had experienced a similar feeling on the same day he had witnessed the birds speaking in York. At the same time he became overcome with tiredness. The sun was beating down upon him, and he could hear the buzzing of bees as they set about their endless work. Hoping this warm tranquillity was the sole cause of his lethargy, he shook his head to try and clear it, and the tiredness became even more pronounced. An elm tree was nearby, and Mr Odair put his hand out to steady himself. He did not think he would be able to stay upright much longer, and he sank to his feet, leaning back against the elm. Within seconds, he had fallen into a deep, deep sleep.

Immediately, Mr Odair began to dream a most vivid dream. He found himself in a long, darkened hallway of an unknown and decaying castle. The walls were covered with banners and tapestries that may once have been vibrant and beautiful, but had become dust-coated and moth-eaten. Somewhere nearby, in an adjacent room, he could hear a solitary viol and pipe playing the saddest music he had ever heard. It brought to mind the heartbreak of a thousand jilted lovers, the pain of a mother outliving her child, the loneliness of a wife losing her husband in the war.

Mr Odair wandered down the empty corridor, unsure if he wished to find an entrance to the room where the music was playing or not. He may have been walking for a few seconds, or for a few millennia, when he finally came across a huge, oak door. With a deep breath, Mr Odair gently pushed the door open a few inches.

The room was filled to bursting with a collection of the strangest people Mr Odair had ever seen, each of them dancing to the bitter, melancholy music. One woman appeared to be wearing a dress woven from spider-webs that had caught the morning dew, shimmering and sparkling with each movement. He was certain that he could even see one or two spiders still living in their web-homes. The coat of one gentleman was, at first glance, as black as night, but as Mr Odair looked deeper into it, he could swear that he saw the stars moving within the folds of the fabric.

At the very centre of the dance was a familiar-looking, beautiful young maiden. She was wearing a dress of flames, which licked and flickered over her skin as her sinewy figure spun round and around. Mr Odair opened the door a little wider, hoping to get a better look at this intriguing figure, when a dancer nearer to him caught his eye. A strikingly handsome, dark-skinned man was dancing with a partner wearing a dress woven from the sea during a storm. The dancer looked up from his partner and an expression of panicked recognition passed over his face before the steps of the dance swept him away again. This feeling echoed in Mr Odair, for he knew this man. It was Cinna, Mr Everdeen's butler. Strange that Mr Odair should be dreaming of him!

Mr Odair was as fond as any other young man of dancing, and suddenly the sad music seemed to change—it spoke to him directly. There! That trilling phrase perfectly described his initial joy at being accepted into District 12, and that run of notes surely described his excitement at discovering that practical magic was real! He closed his eyes and allowed the music to wash over him, as each chord and phrase, each individual note reminded him of a moment in his life.

He felt his body begin to sway in time with the music and looked around for a free partner, but the only person dancing alone appeared to be the girl on fire in the centre of the room. He was just contemplating trying to make his way through the dancing crowd towards the lone girl when a voice at his side caught his attention. "Who are you?" demanded this voice.

Mr Odair turned and found that he was not alone in this corridor. To his side was a handsome young man of about his own age. His blond curls looked rather tousled, as if he had only just woken up and had not yet performed his morning toilet, and his blue eyes glittered even in the dark candlelight.

Mr Odair gaped at the sudden appearance of this man. He shook his head and all of a sudden the music, which moments before spoke directly to him, sounded as hollow and melancholy as ever. He turned away from the dancers and was about to answer the other man's question, when the other gentleman asked again. "I repeat, who are you?"

"My name is Odair, and—"

"You are not the one I summoned. What are you doing here?"

Mr Odair felt a little slighted that his own subconscious would speak to him so rudely, particularly when he had been so polite and charming himself. "Dreaming," he answered shortly, before turning back to watch the dancing.

The other man pulled the door closed and leant in closer towards Mr Odair. "No," he answered. "This is _my_ dream. What are you doing in it? Answer me!"

All Mr Odair could see at that moment were those bright blue eyes, leaning in closer and closer. They filled his vision; he was surrounded by bright blue, he was drowning in it…

With a deep gasp, Mr Odair opened his eyes. He was back in Hyde Park. The sun's warming rays were a far cry from the cold stone walls of the desolate castle, and the sounds of bees buzzing and birds singing were joyous to hear, particularly in comparison to the sad sound of the viol and pipe.

He looked around at the park surrounding him. The world seemed back to normal. Mr Odair was convinced that some kind of magic had just taken place, and that whatever it was, was now ended.

His fatigue left him as fast as it had hit him, and within moments he climbed to his feet, brushed down his trousers, straightened his lapels, and continued on his walk. His mind tried to remember the details of the dream, so that he might look up any symbolism as soon as he got the chance, but the only thing he was able to recall with any real clarity were the blue eyes of the young gentleman who had stood near him.

As he continued on his walk, he heard a raised voice that sounded strangely familiar. "He eludes me even in dreams, Gale! And who was the other gentleman? There should be a law forbidding men to enter the dreams of others unasked!"

Naturally, Mr Odair's curiosity was piqued and he followed the sound of the familiar voice. Imagine his surprise when he saw, under the shade of a willow tree, the very same gentleman whom he had met moments before in his dream! No sooner had Mr Odair noticed the striking blond hair and startlingly blue eyes of Peeta Mellark did that other man look up. He goggled at Mr Odair, before striding over towards him. "You there! What did you mean by it?"

"What did I mean by—"

"By trespassing in my dream! I was attempting to summon the London magician! He has not responded to a single one of my written requests to meet him. I was hoping he would respond to a more practical request."

"You are a practical magician?" asked Mr Odair. His mind raced back to several months earlier, to his strange and ominous meeting with Marvel, the street magician.

"Yes," replied Mr Mellark, looking confused. "Really, what other kind is there?"

"I would class myself as a theoretical magician. But this is incredible!" said Mr Odair. "That was your dream, you say? And you summoned me into it? Which spell did you use? Ormskirk? Hether-Grey?"

Something in Mr Mellark's expression softened slightly, and he threw his arms up in a gesture of mock-defeat. "I have not the least idea."

"So you have not studied?"

"Ha! If only I could, I might better understand what I'm doing! Every single bookseller tells me that their magical texts have already been sold to another gentleman."

"And I daresay I could make a guess as to who that particular gentleman is," said Mr Odair.

"But you are a theoretical magician! You must have access to texts of your own!"

"Very little I am afraid," sighed Mr Odair. "Before Mr Heavensbee launched his vendetta against all others claiming the title of magician, I found myself in a similar position to yourself. I contacted any booksellers and publishers with much the same intention, only to find that the choicest titles had already been taken. I found that most of what Mr Heavensbee left behind was fit only for use as a fire-lighter."

"But you still bought those books, yes? You have access to them?"

"I bought everything I could afford, yes."

A wide smile spread across Mr Mellark's face. "Then you, my friend, have just found your biggest admirer. I insist on you joining me for dinner tonight."

\-----------------------------------

"It would appear that you have a rival."

These words fell from the mouth of Mr Crane, who was currently leaning over the billiards table in Hanover Square. Mr Heavensbee's head snapped up sharply to look over at Mr Crane. A kind of panic set into his heart. A rival? Impossible! No one else had dedicated themselves to study as fully as he had. Surely no one else could have possibly achieved anything close to the feats that he had? No. It was surely an impossibility. It was his name that was shouted from the rooftops. It was he who was the hero of the war effort. And besides, he had purchased every book of magic that he knew of. But still… what if there was another? Mr Heavensbee was unsure of how this prospect made him feel.

"And who is this rival?" replied Mr Cato, leaning back in his armchair as he watched Mr Crane take the shot.

"Have you heard of Peeta Mellark?"

"Of Woodhay Manor in Sussex? Seven thousand pounds a year? Thirty years old and still without occupation?"

"The very same."

Mr Heavensbee let out a small sigh of relief. This Mr Mellark sounded of a similar type to Mr Cato. A young gentleman of leisure. Indeed, it was far more likely that Mr Crane's comment was actually directed towards Mr Cato. Perhaps this Mellark was a rival in a love affair or in a business deal? The more he thought on this, the more this conclusion seemed ever more likely.

"Although," continued Mr Crane, "He is not without occupation any longer. As I understand it, Mr Mellark is claiming to be quite adept at magic. He has come to London. Presumably to aid Mr Heavensbee."

"Or possibly to challenge him."

Mr Heavensbee stood up very suddenly, making the two gentlemen at the billiards table start. He immediately rang for Haymitch and refused to speak to either Mr Cato or Mr Crane until he had spoken with his servant.

After a few minutes, Haymitch appeared, looking much at ease and vaguely amused by the sight of Heavensbee's discomfort. He crossed his arms and leant back against the doorframe, waiting for his master to cease his pacing.

"Who is Peeta Mellark?"

"I cannot say I know the gentleman personally, but—"

"You have heard of him?"

"We have received correspondence from him, yes."

"Saying what?"

Haymitch raised an eyebrow before answering. "He claims to be a practical magician."

The effect this statement had on Mr Heavensbee was rather startling. His eyebrows flew so high that they practically disappeared under his wig, and it was most fortunate that he was adjacent to an armchair, as his legs gave way underneath him.

"Strange that you would hire a man to keep watch over your business, and yet he would fail to give you information as important as this," said Mr Cato. "I would have my servants beaten for less."

Haymitch narrowed his eyes towards Mr Cato and opened his mouth, presumably with a sarcastic retort. It was lucky that Mr Heavensbee spoke first. "Why did you not tell me this before?"

Turning back to his master, he replied, "For the same reason I have not told you about the hundred other letters I have received from various persons claiming to be practical magicians and wanting your guidance. You told me it is an impossibility for there to be others."

"It is!"

"Then why should you wish me to disturb you with news that you would not believe?"

Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of his finger for a moment. Haymitch, as always, spoke sense. And yet… the memory of Marvel breaking into his home and telling him about the other magician swam at the front of his mind. The other magician who was supposedly a Southerner. Peeta Mellark, a gentleman from Sussex who was claiming to be able to do magic….

He shook his head. No, he had been right. It was an absolute impossibility. If there was a great library at Woodhay Manor, he would have heard about it. There was no one from whom this Mr Mellark could learn, and he certainly could not have amassed a hoard of his own books. However, he could not help but wonder if there was a chance that Mr Mellark had managed to learn something. Still feeling a little ill at ease, he ordered Haymitch to fetch him a glass of wine to steady his nerves. As Mr Crane and Mr Cato continued their game, he picked up a nearby book, a biography of the life of Martin Pale, and attempted to read. Any astute observers would note that Mr Heavensbee's eyes were not moving over the page, and the slight frown creasing his brow indicated that his mind was most certainly elsewhere.

\---------------------------------------------

Three weeks after arriving in London, Peeta Mellark was still no closer to speaking to the elusive Mr Heavensbee. After talking at length with Mr Odair, Mr Mellark decided that direct action was his best course. Mr Odair tried repeatedly to warn him about Mr Heavensbee's attitude towards other magicians, but Mr Mellark dismissed these warnings. After all, he was not a charlatan like the street magicians; he was an equal, and therefore surely Mr Heavensbee would treat him as such.

With Gale's help, he dressed in his best clothes, hoping to make a good and lasting impression. It was only a short walk from the apartment that Mr Mellark had taken in Soho Square to Mr Heavensbee's rooms in Hanover Square, but Mr Mellark felt that arriving by carriage would hold him in better stead, and as such he requested Gale to leave early and find him one to hire.

At a little after eleven o'clock, on a crisp spring morning, Mr Mellark stood on the threshold to the house in Hanover Square for the very first time. His insistent knock was answered by a scruffy, surly-looking man who spoke in a heavy Yorkshire accent.

"Can I help you?" said Haymitch, impatiently.

"I'm looking for the magician of Hanover Square," replied Mr Mellark.

"And is the magician of Hanover Square expecting you?"

"No, not exactly—" said Mr Mellark, as Haymitch began to close the door on him. He stuck his boot in the door frame, preventing Haymitch from shutting him out. "—but I believe he would want to see me."

"Really? And what exactly makes you believe that?"

Mr Mellark closed his eyes for a moment and rested his hand against the cool brick exterior. When he opened his eyes, he focused on a small shoot of ivy that was beginning to creep up the wall. As he concentrated on the shoot, it began to grow upwards, twisting like the sinews of a snake as it latched on to the wall.

If Haymitch was surprised by the turn of events, he kept his surprise well hidden. "I think you had better come in," he said.

Gale agreed to wait outside with the carriage, while Mr Mellark entered the house at Hanover Square for the very first time. He followed Haymitch through to a fine-looking drawing room and took a seat when invited. "I shall inform Mr Heavensbee of your arrival. Who should I tell him is waiting upon him?"

"My name is Mellark. Peeta Mellark. I have written to Mr Heavensbee previously."

"Indeed?" replied Haymitch, one eyebrow raised. "I shall go and inform Mr Heavensbee of your arrival." With a nod of his head, Haymitch indicated a fine crystal decanter on a sideboard. "Help yourself to refreshments."

A nervousness began to consume Mr Mellark, as he felt that his entire future career may well depend upon this meeting. As the minutes began to drag on, the crystal decanter began to look more and more appealing, until he stood up and poured himself a measure, purely for something to do.

The whisky was a little warm for his palate, and he felt the usual strange prompting, a half-whispered instruction. Closing his eyes for a moment, Mr Mellark took a deep breath and swirled the contents of the crystal tumbler three times, concentrating hard on the whirlpool created in the middle. As he stopped moving the glass, and the contents became still, he noticed with a satisfied smile that an ice-cube had formed from nowhere.

He looked up to notice that he was being observed by Haymitch, who once again did not betray any form of surprise. "This way," said the scruffy-looking servant.

Mr Mellark knocked back the drink in order to steady his nerves, then followed Haymitch up two narrow sets of stairs, and he found himself cursing the London architectural habit of building upwards rather than outwards. At last he was led into a modern-looking drawing room where three men, one middle-aged and two closer to his own age, were in conversation. He had seen caricatures in various papers of Mr Heavensbee that showed him as a fussy, middle-aged gentleman, and so he assumed that the older man was his quarry, although his appearance seemed rather at odds with his current surroundings. Indeed, the two younger men were far more fashionably dressed and appeared more relaxed and at home than the magician, who was eyeing him warily.

Haymitch made the introductions, and Mr Mellark stepped forward to shake Mr Heavensbee's hand. "It is an honour to meet you, sir. Your feats are, of course, known throughout the kingdom."

"And I'm sorry to say your reputation also precedes you," said one of the younger men.

"That's enough, Mr Cato," said Mr Heavensbee warningly.

"My reputation, sir?"

"I think what Mr Cato is trying to say," interrupted Haymitch before Mr Cato could speak again, "is that the name Mellark is well known in society. Your wealth is known, but we were unaware you had applied yourself to a particular career."

Mr Mellark turned his gaze back towards Mr Heavensbee. "And that is precisely why I have come to seek you out, sir. I feel that alone there is only so much that I am able to accomplish. Perhaps with your help, I will be able to achieve so much more."

"And what, precisely, have you achieved so far?" asked Mr Cato.

Before Mr Mellark was able to answer, Mr Crane spoke out. "Perhaps you would do us the honour of showing us your talents? I am so very fond of seeing magic performed."

"Very well," replied Mr Mellark. He looked around the drawing room for inspiration, well aware of the four pairs of eyes burning into him. A sideboard stood in front of a mirror, and on the side board stood an assortment of items; a vase containing an array of hothouse flowers, another crystal decanter filled with brandy, a statuette of Lady Britannia. Mr Mellark walked up to the sideboard and placed his hands upon it, staring into the depths of the mirror.

He concentrated hard upon the mirror, gripping the edges of the sideboard, and at long last let out a breath that he had been holding. Nothing happened. Mr Crane and Mr Cato, who were used to seeing spectacular feats performed almost daily by Mr Heavensbee, smirked and made comments to the effect that it had been a good jape, but that Mr Mellark must have known he could not have lied forever. Meanwhile, however, Mr Heavensbee had rushed over to Mr Mellark's side.

"But this is extraordinary!" he proclaimed. "I did not know such a thing was even possible! How did you…?"

"I do not know," sighed Mr Mellark. "It is almost like trying navigate in the dead of night. One can see the pathway just a few inches ahead, but not the entire journey. I am never entirely sure where I will end up."

Mr Heavensbee clasped his hands together in delight, although both Mr Cato and Mr Crane were still unsure as to exactly what had just transpired. "What exactly—" began Mr Crane.

"Try and pick something up!" exclaimed Mr Heavensbee, indicating the items on the sideboard. He stood aside to allow Mr Crane access and gave another delighted clap when Mr Crane's hand passed straight through the crystal decanter.

"What has happened to it?" asked Mr Crane.

"The decanter and the reflection. They have exchanged places!"

"I am sorry to say that I have not the least idea how to get your original items back," said Mr Mellark apologetically.

"How incredibly useful," said Mr Cato in his usual sarcastic drawl. "Just when a thirst was coming over me, as well."

"Well, it seems clear to me what must be done next!" said Mr Heavensbee. "You must apply yourself to study!"

"Nothing would please me more," answered Mr Mellark. "But sadly, studying is not something I have been able to indulge in as yet. No booksellers appear to have any books to sell me." His words were light but he hoped the meaning was clear.

From the corner of the room, where Haymitch was quietly observing, Mr Mellark was certain he heard just a hint of a snort of laughter.

Mr Heavensbee clearly understood his meaning. He worried at his bottom lip and appeared to be fighting a very clear internal struggle. "I have books," he said at last.

"Mr Heavensbee," said Mr Cato in a serious tone, "a word, please?" He led Mr Heavensbee out into the hallway, out of earshot of the others and whispered urgently. "You yourself are always saying that others are not worthy to study magic. What makes this one so special?"

"Others are not worthy because they clearly do nothing with the knowledge given to them. He has talent! I have never seen anyone else able to do magic, and this is without a day's study! With proper guidance, he could be one of the greatest magicians ever!"

"He could be a threat to you," said Mr Cato, secretly thinking about the influence that he and Mr Crane had gained over Mr Heavensbee in the last few months. Another magician would surely take that influence away, as Mr Heavensbee would turn to them for advice instead? It would not do…

Mr Heavensbee considered this unappealing prospect for a moment. He had lived his life in fear of seeing other men do magic, but now that he finally had, he found he was not frightened or angry, but thrilled. But what if Mr Cato was right? What if Mr Mellark proved to be a threat to him? "All the more reason for me to guide his studies," said Mr Heavensbee. "If I can control what he learns, then I can ensure it will not be used against me."

The two men re-entered the drawing room. Haymitch was still in his usual position in the corner, while Mr Crane was clearly bored and had taken to polishing his pocket watch to a shining gleam. Mr Mellark was stood by the window, his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he waited for Heavensbee's return.

"I should very much like to guide your studies. Show you how to develop and control your talents," said Mr Heavensbee, experiencing a terrible pang in his stomach as he realised the conversation very much echoed the ones he had had with the gentleman with snow-white hair.

"I would certainly be honoured," replied Mr Mellark. "It is so very tedious wishing to know more but having no resources from which to learn."

"Then we must rectify this immediately," said Mr Heavensbee. He went to a bookshelf and picked out a book. Nothing too dangerous: a biography of a theoretical magician from the 17th Century, Robert Francis Ferrer, who was one of the first men to postulate that the role of fairies within magic was vastly over-exaggerated. "I should very much like you to read this," said Mr Heavensbee, looking down at the book in his hands as if he were unsure how to proceed.

He looked up and was a little taken aback to see that Mr Mellark was stood beside him. "You wish for me to read this book?"

Mr Heavensbee nodded.

"Then you shall have to hand it to me, sir."

His internal struggle became even more apparent, and it clearly took absolutely every last piece of Mr Heavensbee's resolve to part with the book, which he parted with only with the utmost reluctance. After the book was passed to him, Mr Mellark caught Haymitch's eyes, and he could swear that he saw the ghost of supressed laughter in the servant's eyes.

Once he had parted with this first book, the hardest task seemed to be over for Mr Heavensbee, and he had soon pressed no fewer than eleven other books into Mr Mellark's hands, and arranged for Mr Mellark to return early the next day to begin his education.

And just like that, with the meeting of the two magicians, the future of English magic was irrevocably changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Court81981 for being the world's best beta, and to the wonderful streetlightlove1 for pre-reading.
> 
> Also, if you didn't know, streetlightlove1 is organising s2sl - which is raising money for research into pediatric cancers. Check it out on tumblr, donate and get some incredible smut-laden stories from some of the best writers this fandom has to offer. Oh, and something from me too.
> 
> Thanks for reading, now please don't forget to review. And I *promise* that Peeta and Katniss will meet in the next chapter. and more will be explained about Katniss' affliction too...
> 
> Come and say hi on tumblr too! : alatarielgildaen


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks go to Court81981 for beta work and support :)
> 
> Hopefully this chapter will answer a few questions you may have had! Although it may well pose a few more ;) Feel free to drop by at tumblr and say hi. User name is alatarielgildaen

Cinna shook his head as if to clear it. Moments before he had been dreaming of polishing the silver in Mr Everdeen's cabinet, but he could recall neither waking up, nor dressing, nor leaving the house. He looked around to take in his surroundings and found that he was in an unknown coffee house, surrounded by a very fashionable set of people. Seated opposite him was the gentleman with snow-white hair. On seeing the gentleman, Cinna began to understand. For months now he had been under the enchantment the gentleman had placed upon him. His waking life felt like a terrible, sluggish nightmare, and he only felt truly awake when the gentleman called him away.

"My dear Cinna," said the gentleman, "it is such a pleasure to see you, as always."

Cinna had learned that it was best not to appear perturbed by his sudden appearances in strange places. The gentleman with snow-white hair always maintained a cool exterior and appreciated the same unflappable nature in others.

"And you," said Cinna. He checked his surroundings once more. "Where are we?"

"The Bedford Coffee House in Covent Garden. I thought you would appreciate being away from the slave-driver that you call 'master.'"

"Mr Everdeen has always been kind to me, sir."

"Pah! He sees you as unworthy. He does not see your noble bearing, your stylish manners, your obvious high birth. Not as I do." The gentleman picked up his coffee cup and took a delicate sip. Sighing, he said, "It is for this reason that I must apologise."

"Apologise? For what, sir?"

The gentleman leaned back in his chair, entirely at his ease. "Under the terms of the magician's agreement, I am forced to return Miss Everdeen to her dull life here in England every morning. Of course, no such agreement was made regarding you, so perhaps you have been wondering why it is that I do not simply allow you to live in Panem, why I force you back into a life of drudgery and servitude every day."

A shudder passed over Cinna's skin, that he forced himself to repress. Since meeting the gentleman, his life had become a strange dichotomy; during the night, while in Panem, he was forced to dance to the never-ending, dreary music that came from the sole pipe and viol. Sometimes he would be forced to watch violent re-enactments of past battles that the gentleman had taken part in. If two people greatly displeased him, they would be forced to battle to the death like the gladiators of old. He loathed every second of his existence in Panem, and yet while he was away, he felt lethargic and stupid, as if he were living in an inescapable nightmare. He supposed Miss Everdeen must feel the same way, and yet the strange enchantment placed upon both of them prevented either of them from speaking about it.

Out loud, Cinna said, "I had wondered something of the sort, sir."

"The answer is very simple," replied the gentleman. "I am certain that one day you will be king, and it would be entirely wrong of me to remove a king from his kingdom. Know that it pains me that I have to return you daily to this terrible land. But, as a reward and a token of my esteem for you, I have decided to present you with a gift."

Cinna bowed his head towards the gentleman. "Your generosity is boundless, sir, but I have no need for gifts."

The gentleman waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. I have decided that I will find your name!"

He said this with such finality that Cinna was momentarily taken aback, until he was able to process the words. "My name, sir? But I already have a name!"

"No," replied the gentleman, and Cinna was certain that the temperature in the coffee house suddenly dropped by several degrees. "I am not talking about the name forced upon you by the slave-drivers. I am talking about the name your mother gave you."

The image of a hellish boat, filled with kidnapped souls being transported to a strange and distant land, swam sickeningly before Cinna's eyes. For a moment, he swore that he saw a beautiful woman clutching a wailing baby to her breast. The woman whispered a word to the crying babe, who quieted immediately. The image changed, and Cinna was filled with an unparalleled rage; he saw the woman, beaten and bloodied, as she was ravaged again and again by the sailors on the ship, while the baby, swaddled in filthy rags, cried nearby. He watched a tear fall from the eye of the beautiful woman as her gaze fell upon the tiny baby, and a similar tear fell from his own eye as he watched her draw her final breath.

"She died," he whispered. "She never named me."

"Of course she did," replied the gentleman. "It would be a very strange mother who never named her child. There will be a name that she would have whispered to you in the quiet moments, that she thought of as you grew within her, as you grew together. I will find that name for you, Cinna. My gift to you."

"Thank you," said Cinna, struggling desperately to keep both his voice and his emotions under control.

In the lull between them, the conversations of other gentlemen surrounding them could be heard.

"As I understand it," one gentleman was saying, "by righting that grounded ship in Portsmouth, Mr Mellark saved the Admiralty several thousand pounds, and saved over a hundred souls from drowning."

The temperature dropped dangerously again. Any mention of the two magicians was sure to send the gentleman into a rage. "What do you think of the second magician, Cinna?"

"To be perfectly honest, sir, I do not think of him."

A thin, tight smile passed over the lips of the gentleman, overwhelming Cinna with the smell of blood and roses. "Ah, my dear Cinna, you always know what to say! I had such high hopes for that one, but he proves himself to be just as stupid and almost as ugly as the other one! Tell me Cinna, what do you know of the Raven King?"

"I am sorry, sir. Not much. I was never lucky enough to receive a magi-historical education."

"Ahh, then Cinna, you are lucky, for you get to hear about him first-hand from me! He was a true magician, Cinna. Beautiful, powerful and vengeful, as any magician should be. He was loved and respected by every single one of my race, and likewise he loved and respected us. He did not learn from _books_ —" he spat this word as if swearing, "—he learned everything he knew by deferring to us in all his studies. And look at everything he achieved! Kingdoms in all the worlds that there are! And his name is still revered above all others! When I first beheld the new magician, I wondered if he would be different. I waited and watched and did not reveal myself to him, as I wanted to know his intentions, and I am so relieved I waited! He has not an original thought in his head, and instead copies, parrot-like, the other magician's words! Oh, and he has a way about him, that is turning all of England against me and my kind! Perhaps I should have him killed…." he finished thoughtfully.

"There is no need for that," said Cinna hastily.

The gentleman stared at Cinna for a moment before he began to speak. "Yes, I suppose you are right," he said, "and once you are king everyone will see him for the fool he is. He will be shunned! An outcast! Yes, yes that is a much more delicious fate for him."

Cinna smiled and inclined his head towards the gentleman. There was no point reminding him that he, Cinna, would never be King of England, despite what the gentleman proclaimed. And even if he were, by some strange twist of fate, elevated to a position of royalty, vengeance would not be one of his priorities.

\-----------------------------------------

"I just cannot understand him. When we first met, it appeared that he wanted nothing more than to take me on as his pupil. And there are still times when nothing excites him more than imparting a piece of knowledge, or seeing me perform a piece of magic correctly, and yet today…" Mr Mellark shook his head at the memory. "Today I spent three hours listening to his lecture on precaution. We did not open a single book until after we had lunched, and even then, whenever we came across a paragraph containing information he felt unsuitable for me to know, he would panic, snatch the book from my grasp and begin his lectures anew!" Mr Mellark bent over the billiards table and took his shot, but he was so distracted from the events of the day that he missed the easy shot.

Mr Odair smiled sympathetically. "You cannot say that I did not try and warn you at the very beginning," he said as he potted three balls in a row.

"I know. And before you say anything, I still think this is the right decision." Mr Mellark sighed heavily before resuming his place at the table. "It is surely a heavy burden he carries, being the man who singlehandedly brought magic back to England. I suppose I should allow him some eccentricities." He cursed under his breath as he missed another easy shot.

"You are correct that he carries a heavy burden. But surely you can see that much of it is his own fault? He is the one who has secluded himself away from the company of his contemporaries. He is the one who has manipulated others into giving up their dreams. And it would certainly appear that he is the one now hiding knowledge from you." Mr Odair grinned as he sunk his remaining ball, winning the game. Mr Mellark waved his hand in the direction of the table and the balls reassembled themselves, ready for a new game.

"But I cannot understand why he would withhold knowledge! Have I not already proven my usefulness to him? Before I began my studies, he was beset every day by requests to aid this ship, or spy on that general, or help this battalion, and every day he found himself having to explain why he could not help, how it was too much work for just one man. Not anymore! In the two months I have studied under him, together we have worked magic that has not been seen in England in hundreds of years."

"Well," said Mr Odair, as he made the first break, "did you say or do anything that upset him?"

"I made no mention of the Raven King, nor of any fairies, if that is what you are asking. I am more than well aware that I am only to spout the same old, tired drivel that fairies are evil, that we do not owe our magic to the King, even though I myself have been given no _real_ explanation as to _why_ …. I merely asked him about the type of magic he employed to resurrect Miss Everdeen."

"He hasn't shared the spell with you?"

"No," sighed Mr Mellark. "He claims it is too dangerous for me to know. He refuses to share even the title of the book in which it was found. And I strongly suspect that even if he did tell me the title, it would be in one of the books secreted away in Northolt Abbey, where it is entirely beyond my reach. I have found only vague mentions of resurrection in other books, but these seem to be more concerned with the nefarious purpose of reanimating corpses rather than restoring people to life."

The two men resumed their game in silence for a while, each contemplating the horror of the walking dead.

"What is she like?" asked Mr Mellark at long last.

"Who?"

"Miss Everdeen. The most famous subject of the most famous magician."

Mr Odair paused in his contemplation of the table and stood up straighter. "Tragic. I don't know that there is a better term. She is devastatingly beautiful but is surrounded by an all-pervading sense of sadness. She is calm for the most part, but the most innocuous statement can send her into a fit of tears. Miss Cresta visits her often, but a crowd of people appears to be one of her triggers. She greatly prefers the quiet company of just one or two people."

"And no one knows the cause of her sadness?"

Mr Odair shook his head. "It is the strangest thing. When she was first brought back to us, she was the life and soul of every gathering. She would be the first to dance and the last to leave the floor. Her energy seemed boundless. Then from nowhere a lethargy fell over her. At first, everyone assumed that she had simply attended too many parties too frequently, and that a little rest would refresh and restore her. But she grew more and more fatigued daily, refusing all pleasures until she became the hollow shell of the girl that she once was." Mr Odair picked up a piece of chalk, absently rubbing it over the end of his cue. "Miss Cresta blames herself. Her logic for this blame eludes me, but she seems to believe it is her fault for encouraging and inviting Miss Everdeen to every ball, every dinner, every social event that she could." He swallowed heavily before continuing, "Since meeting Miss Cresta, I have never seen her so low."

Mr Mellark turned towards his closest friend. "I should very much like to meet Miss Everdeen. Her sadness affects Miss Cresta, and Miss Cresta's sadness affects you. If there is anything I can do to ease the root of all this suffering, I should like to take the chance."

"Mr Heavensbee says that her malady cannot be cured by magical means. "

"Then he is probably right," sighed Mr Mellark. "In my studies I have yet to encounter any stories of any such illness as hers, let alone how to cure it, and of course he is far better read than I. But that does not stop me wishing to try, at least. Do you think it would be possible to arrange a meeting?"

"It is difficult to say. Mr Everdeen would give anything to see his daughter happy, but Miss Everdeen is distrustful of magicians. It took a great deal of persuasion on the part of Miss Cresta to convince Miss Everdeen that I posed her no threat."

"How strange that she would be so fearful of the very thing she owes her life to!" replied Mr Mellark, a small frown creasing his brow as he bent over the billiards table to line up his next shot. The revelation that Miss Everdeen was opposed to magicians was a queer one, but this did not stop him wanting to help her if he could.

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Mr Crane had become very much accustomed to a certain degree of second-hand influence since befriending Mr Heavensbee. He was used to dining with ministers and the landed gentry. If people wished to speak with Mr Heavensbee, it was Mr Crane or Mr Cato that they sought out first.

As such, Mr Crane had expressed as much concern over Mr Heavensbee educating the second magician as Mr Cato had. In the months since Mr Mellark had first arrived unannounced on the doorstep of Hanover Square, Mr Crane's worries had been shown to be not without foundation. While they were still regular faces at Hanover Square, their opinion was once valued almost as much as any minister's, and a good deal more than the impertinent servant, Haymitch. Now, whenever Mr Mellark was present, it appeared that Mr Heavensbee had eyes and ears for no one else, and when he was not present, he became the sole topic of conversation.

It really was becoming incredibly tiresome, especially because the new arrangement was directly affecting Mr Crane's already precarious financial situation. Before Mr Mellark had entered their lives, he had become used to seeking out magical commissions for Mr Heavensbee. And if the government were willing to pay Mr Heavensbee to perform a piece of magic for them, then naturally Mr Crane would take a certain percentage for finding him the work. Mr Heavensbee was unaware of the situation, but Mr Crane felt that what Mr Heavensbee did not know would not harm him.

But now... Now that the charismatic and vastly approachable Mr Mellark was available, the government went directly to him with their requests, and as such Mr Crane had found himself in the unenviable position of succumbing to mounting debts.

There surely had to be a way to remove Mr Mellark from the equation. And then, one evening, while Mr Crane was being forced to dine with a rather unimportant mill owner and his terminally boring daughter, because Mr Mellark was occupying Mr Heavensbee's attention once again, the solution came to him. The idea that he may soon be rid of Mr Mellark for good lifted his spirits tremendously, and he even allowed himself to join in with the otherwise tedious conversation, knowing that his days of second-rate dining would once again be drawing to a close.

Two days later, he and Mr Cato were sat in the main drawing room in Hanover Square, being served coffee by Haymitch.

"I hear reports that the war in Europe is not going in our favour," he said rather nonchalantly.

"Well, Mr Mellark and I are working as hard as we can to aid the Admiralty," sighed Mr Heavensbee. "But of course there is only so much that just two men can do."

"And of course, you are both to be commended. But from what I understand, it is the armies on land that are suffering most. If only Lord Wellington had a magician at his disposal…."

"I have no desire to travel to Portugal or wherever Lord Wellington currently finds himself! I will do all I can to aid our fight, but I have no wish to see a battlefield!"

"Oh, I quite agree," replied Mr Crane sympathetically. "A battlefield is no place for a venerable gentleman such as yourself. The honour of fighting….it is a young man's game."

Mr Heavensbee's eyes widened as he began to understand Mr Crane's meaning. "No, no, no! I need Mr Mellark here! I could not possibly achieve everything that needs to be done without him! No. We will find a way to aid Lord Wellington. But it will be with Mr Mellark here in England."

Mr Crane inclined his head slightly towards Mr Heavensbee. He had not expected Mr Heavensbee to go with the idea immediately. But he had planted a seed of an idea that he hoped, in time, he would be able to nurture to fruition.

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When Mr Heavensbee first announced that he had taken on a pupil, Mr Everdeen assumed that said pupil would be very much in the vein of the Yorkshire magician. As such, he was most surprised to find that this pupil was a young, witty and rather charming gentleman.

He was still in two minds about magic; there was no denying that without Mr Heavensbee's spell, his daughter would be dead, and yet his daughter had such a vehement dislike of anything magical. But Mr Everdeen was a politician, and the nation was obsessed with magic. As such, he was unable to pretend it didn't exist and was eminently grateful at the discovery of the new magician, who was a far easier man to deal with.

He had summoned Mr Mellark to his home to discuss with him the possibility of using magic to recruit wild animals to the English cause. Some ministers had the notion that animals could be used to spy upon Bonaparte and report back to the English soldiers. They had already decided that Mr Heavensbee would be sure to disagree to the idea immediately, whereas Mr Mellark may well prove to be more persuadable upon the subject.

When Mr Mellark arrived at Mr Everdeen's home on Piccadilly, Mr Everdeen had been called away on urgent business. His servant, Cinna, opened the door and invited Mr Mellark to wait inside, as Mr Everdeen was sure to return within the hour.

He led Mr Mellark through to a comfortable but small drawing room and offered him tea, which Mr Mellark gratefully accepted. Mr Mellark had heard of this servant's reputation as being one of the most attentive servants in London, and as such, he was surprised to see the butler's hands shaking as he poured the tea into a delicate china cup.

After a half an hour, Mr Everdeen had yet to return, and Mr Mellark began to grow restless. He wandered about the drawing room looking for something to do, until his feet bore him out of the drawing room and into the hallway.

For want of any other occupation, Mr Mellark began to study the paintings hanging in the hallway. Most depicted pleasant countryside views, but there was nothing particularly exciting or original. A doorway to his left opened out into a spacious and well-lit drawing room, and within he could see several other paintings hung about the walls. He stepped inside and began to admire a Venetian scene, showing the sun setting low behind the Basilica in the Piazzo San Marco. He longed one day for an end to the war so that he might travel, and Venice was a city he hoped with all his heart he would visit one day.

The next painting was incredibly unusual. It depicted the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen in his life. She appeared to be staring straight out of the canvas at him with her doleful grey eyes, but the most unusual part of the painting was that the artist, for reasons unknown, had replaced the young woman's lips with a white rose. As he stared into the depths of the painting, the woman within shifted slightly. He jumped with fright and turned. There, in front of him, was the woman in the painting. There was no rose in place of the young woman's mouth, but she was dressed exactly as she had been in the painting, and sat in the same pose. Mr Mellark snapped his gaze back to the painting and was highly disconcerted to see a reflection of himself. No longer a painting, but a mirror….

Turning back to the young woman, Mr Mellark stammered an apology. "I am terribly sorry, miss, I had no idea that I was disturbing anyone. Please accept my apologies."

He began to back out of the room when the young lady spoke. "You are not disturbing me. You wished to view the paintings? Please do not let me stop you."

Now that he had been invited to stay it would be a terrible breach of decorum to leave, and so Mr Mellark moved on to the next painting. Another Venetian scene. But Mr Mellark was unable to focus on the picture. His mind drifted to the young woman behind him, and the knowledge that this, surely, was the elusive Miss Everdeen.

Torn between his desire to speak with her, his wish not to offend after being asked to stay, and discomfort at the impropriety of being alone with her without a chaperone, Mr Mellark scanned the remaining landscapes as quickly as possible.

"What do you think of them?"

Mr Mellark turned back to the last painting. It showed a castle in a terrible state of disrepair. The stormy sky was almost black with ravens, and the floor was littered with the bodies of men killed in some great battle. It was a most distressing and unusual painting, and one that Mr Mellark was surprised to find in the home of the Foreign Secretary, especially considering his daughter's well known delicate frame of mind.

He opened his mouth in order to try and find something complimentary to say, but found that words eluded him.

"I hate that picture," supplied Miss Everdeen, "and I confess myself surprised that you can see it. I wondered if it had been placed there for me and me alone."

Mr Mellark turned back towards Miss Everdeen. There was a resigned, defeated tone to her voice that did not become one so young and beautiful, and Mr Mellark suddenly understood Mr Odair's description of her; she was the most beautifully tragic figure he had ever encountered.

"Why might that be?" he asked her kindly.

A bitter smile crossed her face, and when she spoke it was in the same tired and resigned voice. "There is no point in trying to explain it to you." She lifted her hand to cover her mouth, clearly trying to stifle a yawn.

"My apologies, Miss, you must be tired. I should leave you in peace."

"No, please! Don't go!" protested Miss Everdeen. "I so rarely meet new people these days. Please do not think me rude. I am always tired. Nothing will change that."

"Miss Everdeen's sad illness is well-known. I am sorry. Is there anything I might fetch you to make you more comfortable? Should I summon a servant?"

"No, please do not bother dear Cinna on my account. I know full well that Cinna suffers as much as I, and yet he does not have the luxury of rest that I have. I should not wish to be the cause of any extra stress or strain upon him."

She offered Mr Mellark a sad and despondent half-smile and as she did so, Mr Mellark realised that while he knew who she was, she must have no idea as to who he was, or what his business was. And yet without someone to make the introductions he felt unsure of how to proceed.

"Forgive me, Miss Everdeen, I have disturbed your peace and have not even introduced myself. Peeta Mellark. I am waiting upon your father as second magician-in-chief to the British Government."

"Magician?" asked Miss Everdeen, and a terrible grey pallor coloured her face.

Too late, Mr Mellark remembered Mr Odair's warning that Miss Everdeen did not trust magicians. "I mean you no harm," he stammered, raising his hands in a gesture of placation. "I understand that magic upsets you, and I promise I will do none while you are present. You already know a colleague of mine, Mr Odair? Allow me to prove myself as trustworthy as he."

Tears swam in Miss Everdeen's eyes, and her breathing became shallow. "Please let me go. Please let me go. Please let me go." She repeated the phrase over and over, as if speaking to some invisible tormentor, and Mr Mellark felt a huge rush of pity towards her.

"Miss Everdeen?" said Mr Mellark, taking a small step towards her.

The young lady's eyes snapped up to meet his, and she spoke with a deliberate force "Perhaps with you I shall succeed where with others I have failed. Many years ago a young man carved a canoe from the trunk of a great fallen oak. He did this by moonlight, and the moon took a fancy to the young man, and so ensured his protection whenever he took the canoe out at night. But the sun became jealous and…." She bit down hard on her lip and made a cry born of pain and frustration.

At that moment, Mr Everdeen entered the room and saw Mr Mellark standing over his distressed and crying daughter. "What have you done to her?" he demanded.

"I am sorry," Mr Mellark stammered.

"Please, Father," cried Miss Everdeen, "it is not this gentleman's fault. The blame rests entirely on the shoulders of another."

"Who, my love? Who has done this to you?"

She was silent for a moment and appeared to be struggling with an inner turmoil, before she choked out the words, "I cannot say," and broke down in a fit of tears.

Mr Everdeen turned towards Mr Mellark and said in a defeated tone, "I think, perhaps, this meeting should be postponed. I would appreciate your discretion regarding anything my daughter may have told you."

"Of course, sir," replied Mr Mellark, bowing his head towards the foreign minister, and casting one final glance towards Miss Everdeen. As he left the drawing room, he saw Miss Everdeen's reflection in the mirror, and for a moment he could swear that he saw a gentleman with snow-white hair leering over her, but he blinked and the reflected apparition was gone.

\----------------------------------------------

For the rest of the day, Mr Mellark could not stop thinking about the beautiful Miss Everdeen, nor of the strange and all-pervading sadness that surrounded her. Nor could he stop feeling that there was more to her affliction than met the eye. The strange mirror with its deceitful reflections suggested as much.

She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was no stranger to the pleasures of a woman's flesh, but he was certain that none of the delights he had sampled would compare to even a chaste kiss from the lips of Miss Everdeen. It was the thought of her lips that caused his heart to race as he lay in bed that night, and it was the imagined feel of her lips upon his that he focused on as he pleasured himself, and her name that he whispered into the darkness as he climaxed.

As his breathing returned to normal, he vowed that he would do everything in his power to help her. Despite what Mr Heavensbee claimed, he was certain there was some kind of magic at work, and he determined to find out and put a stop to it.

A contented, sleepy feeling washed over him, and he continued to think about Miss Everdeen's beauty as he lay back against his pillows.

Almost as soon as his eyes closed, Mr Mellark found himself in a strange and decaying castle that seemed oddly familiar. A red banner displaying the image of a white rose fluttered against the cold stone walls, and from somewhere outside he could hear a sad and lonely bell tolling. Within the castle's walls there was another sound— that of a solitary pipe and viol playing the most melancholy music Mr Mellark had ever heard. It spoke to him of the neglect of heartless parents and of the loneliness of elderly bachelors and spinsters dying without ever knowing true love. He had to find the source of the music, and he began to wander along the seemingly endless corridor. The gloomy corridor was lit by far too few candles, and the tiny, cracked windows were too far apart to allow much light inside.

Mr Mellark looked out of one of the windows and was disconcerted to see that the sky was alive with ravens, swooping in and out of each other, blocking the eerie light from the grey sky. They almost appeared to be dancing to the strange and sad music, and Mr Mellark was more determined than ever to find the source. He continued to walk down the cold and deserted corridor, until at long last, he reached a huge oak door. Pushing this slightly ajar, he was met with a room full of the strangest people he had ever seen. With his mouth agape, Mr Mellark began to wander amongst them.

Each one of them possessed an unearthly beauty and were dressed in fashions such as he had never seen. One woman wore a shining black dress that appeared to move and pulsate. On closer inspection, the dress appeared to be made up of a thousand armoured beetles, clinging to the woman and writhing over each other.

This woman made eye contact with Mr Mellark, and deliberately stepped towards him, causing the beetles to make a hideous clicking sound with each movement.

"I have not seen you here before," she said, and her voice resembled the strange clicking of the beetles.

"This is the first time I have had the pleasure of being here," replied Mr Mellark, although he had no idea where 'here' was supposed to be.

The beetle woman licked her lips, a hungry, predatory gesture, and said, "Might I have the honour of having your first dance?"

Even in this dream-land, the idea of being in such close proximity to the strange woman and her living dress was enough to make Mr Mellark's skin crawl, and so he politely declined and continued to walk amongst the unusual congregation.

In the centre of the room a particular dancer caught his eye. The lithe young woman had her back to him, but Mr Mellark was intrigued by her beautiful dress that appeared to be made entirely of fire. He wondered how the woman did not cry out or shriek in pain at the all-consuming flames and determined to try and make his way through the crowd towards her.

As he pushed past a gentleman who was wearing a coat of fine silk that sang strange and discordant harmonies, Mr Mellark accidentally became swept up in the dance. He smiled graciously at his partner, whose bejewelled dress had been created from the tears of a hundred thousand broken-hearted lovers.

Even as the dance progressed, and the steps became more frenzied, Mr Mellark could not tear his mind away from the girl on fire in the centre of the room. He kept stealing glances at her at every opportunity, and was met with disappointment every time, as the girl was always facing away from him.

At long last the dance ended, and Mr Mellark bowed to his partner, but it was not long until the solitary pipe and viol began to play again. He felt a little out of breath from the last dance, and was already tiring of the dreary and melancholy music, and he wondered why all the dancers appeared so enthusiastic to continue.

He ducked away from his partner and turned back towards the girl on fire. A surprised, "Oh!" fell from his lips as he accidentally walked straight into a strikingly handsome dark-skinned fellow. "Forgive me, sir," he said, before recognition caught up with him. "I know you! It is Cinna, is it not?" he asked.

"What are you doing here?" said the servant, with uncustomary vitriol in his voice. When Mr Mellark did not answer immediately he spoke again, "Do you not know how he hates English magicians? If he sees you here he is likely to harm you! You must leave!" Without another word, the servant took his partner's hands in his own and the two were swept away in the dance.

"Who?" cried Mr Mellark after the retreating form of Cinna. "Who hates me?" He watched the servant dance for a few more seconds, the strange and ominous warning ringing in his ears. With a heavy feeling on his chest, as if a lead weight had settled there, Mr Mellark felt that he had outstayed his welcome in this place. Where before the dancers held nothing but intrigue for him, suddenly they seemed dangerous.

Mr Mellark turned on the spot, determined to leave, and suddenly found himself face to face with the girl wearing the dress of flames. Both Mr Mellark and the girl on fire gave a gasp of shock.

It was Miss Everdeen.

"How did you find me?" said Miss Everdeen urgently.

"You clearly made an impression on me to feature so prominently in my dream," smiled Mr Mellark, knowing he would not be so bold in real life.

Miss Everdeen's eyes widened as she spoke in a hushed tone. "You are not dreaming, sir, I assure you."

Mr Mellark shook himself. "I am, Miss Everdeen. I assure you."

She shook her head and said, "I have been under an enchantment for many, many months now that brings me, nightly, to this castle. My life was bargained away to a wicked fairy for the sake of a man's career and I am…." Her eyes widened further and she looked shocked at the words she had just spoken. "I have been, until now, unable to speak of this enchantment. Mr Mellark, I beseech you, you have to help me. Cinna, too."

This revelation seemed so far-fetched that at first, Mr Mellark dismissed it as the ramblings of his own unconscious mind. But as he dwelt upon her words, he began to wonder if there was any truth to them. After all, Mr Heavensbee had outright refused to share any information regarding Miss Everdeen's resurrection. Was it possible that the reason he refused to elaborate was because of his own terrible hypocrisy? The rose at her lips in the strange painting…. The rose on the banner flying in this decaying castle…. He vaguely recalled reading somewhere that roses could be used to control and supress a victim somehow… The strange tales that fell from her lips when she had tried to speak of her enchantment previously…..and suddenly he believed every word that she told him.

"What must I do?" he asked her.

"If what I have heard about you is true, you will find a way. Please, Mr Mellark. Save me."

The flames of her dress licked higher, engulfing her, and her shining grey eyes blazed with a furious anger. Back in his rooms in Soho Square, Mr Mellark awoke with a start with no memory of the decaying castle, its bizarre fairy inhabitants, nor of the terrible and bitter truth regarding Katniss Everdeen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience for this chapter! With S2SL going on, I thought we'd all have plenty to read in the meantime. And if you haven't read those amazing stories yet, there's still time! Check out S2SL on tumblr for details on how to donate to the charity and get access to some incredible HG stories.
> 
> Thanks as always to Court81981 for betaing this. ILY!
> 
> Oh and please do drop by and say hello on tumblr! User name is alatarielgildaen. Thanks all!

The following day Mr Mellark returned to the Everdeen household in order to listen to the government's proposal regarding using wild animals as spies. The visions that Mr Heavensbee and Mr Mellark were able to summon in silver dishes of water were all well and good, but the government grew ever more frustrated at the lack of sound produced by them. The use of spies on the ground seemed like the obvious solution to the problem. Mr Mellark was well aware that the proposal had been put to him instead of his tutor, probably for the reason that he, Mr Mellark, would be more persuadable on the subject. As such, he felt rather uncomfortable as he explained how the spell would be most difficult to achieve.

"The problem, sir, lies in limiting the effectiveness of the spell so that it does not affect every animal in the area. I believe Bonaparte would notice something were amiss if every single deer, rabbit, fox and rat within a mile radius were to show up and stare attentively at him. And of course we would have to ensure that they went _only_ where we wanted. Being living beings themselves, they may still retain some of their own will, and a rabbit may return with a detailed report of his own warren and nothing more interesting. And as the animal itself has no real interest in human affairs, it may well be unable to make the distinction between the French and our own allies. We could end up spying upon ourselves."

"I understand, although I doubt the other ministers will be pleased to hear it. Cinna, would you show Mr Mellark out?"

Mr Mellark had not heard the butler enter the room, but out of the corner of his eye, saw Cinna bow slightly to his master. For a split second, Mr Mellark swore that the servant wore a thin and elegant gold diadem across his brow, but when he turned it proved to be nothing more than a trick of the light.

"Sir, Miss Everdeen has requested an audience with the magician before he leaves," said Cinna, his professional manner barely masking the exhaustion in his voice.

Mr Everdeen stood up straighter. "My Katniss?"

"Yes, sir. She is quite insistent."

Turning to Mr Mellark, Mr Everdeen said, "Sir, you would do me a great honour if you would agree to speak with her. I understand if you wish to leave, after witnessing her outburst yesterday—" Mr Everdeen's voice trembled slightly, but he cleared his throat with a small cough and continued, "—if you can spare a few minutes it would not go unappreciated."

"Of course," replied Mr Mellark, hoping that his embarrassment did not show as he recalled his carnal thoughts from the night before regarding the minister's daughter. He took a deep breath to collect himself before following Cinna and Mr Everdeen into the adjacent drawing room where Miss Everdeen spent her days.

As soon as the magician entered the room, Miss Everdeen's eyes widened. "Have you found a way…?" she began, before stopping abruptly at the blank look on Mr Mellark's face. "You have no recollection, do you?"

"Recollection of what, Miss Everdeen?" he prompted her gently.

"Do you not remember meeting me?"

"I could not forget," he smiled. "I was here only yesterday."

"I do not mean here! I mean there!" She pointed towards a stretch of blank wall. Mr Mellark followed the line of her finger. Something seemed different… but the more he tried to recall precisely _what_ was different, the more it seemed to slip through his fingers like fine sand.

"I am sorry, Miss Everdeen. I do not understand."

Miss Everdeen looked between the wall and Mr Mellark, sadness clouding her beautiful features. "You can no longer see it?" she asked him. When he did not immediately reply she said, "You do not remember—" she turned away from the gentlemen in the room to stare out of her window, "—and I am forever doomed."

"Miss Everdeen, if there is anything I might to do to ease your distress—"

"There is nothing," she interrupted. "Cinna, if it is not too much trouble to you, please send for Madge to aid me. I think I should like to lie down a while. Good day to you, Mr Mellark. Please do not blame yourself for my disappointment. I should have known better than to have hope."

Wishing that there were more he could do to aid the beautifully tragic figure, Mr Mellark bowed his head slightly and said, "My offer will always stand, Miss Everdeen. Good day."

Mr Mellark walked out into the warm sunshine and was struck by the pleasantness of the day. It served to throw into even sharper contrast the tragic circumstances of Miss Everdeen's current existence. She occupied his thoughts as he crossed Piccadilly and walked up Regent Street towards Hanover Square. He had to speak with Mr Heavensbee regarding her condition, for despite what Mr Heavensbee said, Mr Mellark was certain that something had gone wrong with the spell that brought her back. After all, it was one of the first pieces of magic Mr Heavensbee had performed; he had not been as experienced and there was every chance that the spell had not worked correctly.

Meanwhile, in Hanover Square, Mr Crane and Mr Cato were busy nurturing the idea of sending Mr Mellark abroad. Mr Mellark's achievements in saving the grounded ship in Portsmouth were still the talk of London. He had been visiting friends in Portsmouth when the ship, _The False Prelate_ had run into difficulties navigating the treacherous sandbanks off the coast. It was well known that Heavensbee's pupil was in the town, and thus he was immediately sent for. It was incredibly fortunate that Mr Mellark had been there, for it was his quick, decisive action that saved the lives of the sailors that day.

"If the rescue of _The False Prelate_ has taught us anything, it must surely be the importance of having a magician on hand to deal with any eventuality," said Mr Crane.

"And if Mr Mellark were coupled with a general such as Wellington, there is no telling what could be achieved," added Mr Cato.

"No, no, no," replied Mr Heavensbee. "I have said it before, and I will say it again. I need Mr Mellark here. There is simply too much work to be done to justify sending him away. And besides, nothing, I repeat, nothing, is so sure to evoke memories of the Raven King as the sight of an English magician on a battlefield. It is my deepest wish for magic to be regarded as a profession as respectable as law and a good deal more so than medicine. There is nothing more to be said on the subject."

"I wouldn't be so certain," said Haymitch from the corner of the room. Three pairs of eyes found him hunched over a desk, a spread of cards laid out before him. "The cards say that Mr Mellark will not be under your direction forever."

"Very interesting," said Mr Crane. "And do the cards give any kind of time frame?"

Haymitch gathered the cards up again, shuffled them and laid out a new spread. "No," he said after a while, "it just gives me the same answer each time—that he will, at some point, not have to answer to you."

"Put those dratted things away," snapped Mr Heavensbee. "If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times, I do not approve of the use of those cards. And besides, prophesies are so highly inaccurate and very rarely come true."

"Marvel's did," shrugged Haymitch, risking inciting Mr Heavensbee's severe displeasure.

A heavy and loaded silence fell across the drawing room, broken suddenly by the clear ringing of a bell. Haymitch immediately cleared his cards away, to the accompanied sound of Mr Heavensbee's impatient tutting. "That will be Mr Mellark now. Do not keep him waiting, Haymitch."

As soon as the servant left the room, Mr Cato said, "I will never understand how you put up with that man's insolence."

"I need him," replied Mr Heavensbee. "Haymitch knows the world far better than I."

"Perhaps that was the case while you were in Yorkshire. But you are in London now. You have no need of an uncouth and ill-mannered servant to show you how the world works."

"You wish first to deprive me of my pupil, and now of my servant!" uttered Mr Heavensbee.

"No, not at all!" said Mr Crane. "But I would ask you not to dismiss out of hand what we have said. And I would not be at all surprised if the government makes an official request of Mr Mellark sooner or later anyway. Of course, I would understand your reservations in sending him away, but you must be aware that the ends justify the means."

When Haymitch returned with Mr Mellark in tow, Mr Heavensbee could not help but notice the look of consternation on his pupil's face: the slightly furrowed brow and vaguely downturned lips which indicated that Mr Mellark had quite possibly encountered a problem that he himself was unable to rectify.

"I trust everything is alright?" prompted Mr Heavensbee. "Would you care for refreshments before we start?"

Mr Mellark swallowed before speaking, and would not look at Mr Heavensbee. "I have just come from seeing Mr Everdeen," he said.

"Ahh, does the good minister have a new commission for us?"

"No," said Mr Mellark. "It would be next to impossible to attempt what was suggested."

"I understand," said Mr Heavensbee sympathetically. "All too often they ask the impossible of us, but that is no reason to become despondent! Instead, see this merely as an obstacle to be overcome, a problem which together, perhaps, we may find a solution to!"

"It is not that which concerns me," said Mr Mellark, looking up at his tutor at last. "I happened to meet Miss Everdeen, and there is much about the young lady which I find most worrisome."

Any mention of Miss Everdeen bothered Mr Heavensbee greatly. Most people had such little understanding of magic that they questioned nothing that Mr Heavensbee told them, but his remarkable pupil was much more astute than the average layperson. It was for this very reason that Mr Heavensbee had to restrict Mr Mellark's learning—both to protect himself from anyone finding out that he had lied to the nation, and to protect Mr Mellark from wandering down the dangerous paths that knowledge of fairies and Otherlanders could lead him.

"She is well cared for by her father," said Mr Heavensbee, especially concerned that Mr Mellark would speak of Miss Everdeen in front of Mr Crane and Mr Cato. "Do not concern yourself with the trifling affairs of young ladies. Let us get started, shall we? Mr Crane, Mr Cato, do excuse us."

Mr Heavensbee led Mr Mellark from the drawing room and into the library, but before he was able to even open a book, Mr Mellark spoke.

"Do you believe it possible, sir, that there may still be fairies in England?"

It took all of Mr Heavensbee's will to maintain a passive face. "No," he replied. "No, I am quite certain that they departed England at around the same time as the Raven King."

"But what if you are mistaken, sir? Think how much we could learn from them!"

"I am not mistaken!" he replied, becoming impatient.

Mr Mellark looked as if he had a great deal more to say on the subject, and, anticipating this, Mr Heavensbee said, "Instead of working on baseless hypotheticals, let us instead immerse ourselves in knowledge that has proven to be true." He reached up to take a few titles from his bookshelf, hoping that these would distract Mr Mellark from his current line of questioning.

"You cannot deny that there have been several reports of fairy sightings over the last three hundred years," continued Mr Mellark.

"Unsubstantiated nonsense from unreliable sources."

"And what if…." Mr Mellark swallowed and looked unsure as to whether he should continue. "What if there _was_ a reliable source?"

"Such as….?"

Mr Mellark sighed and looked more uncomfortable than ever. "There is a strange air surrounding Miss Everdeen. I…. I believe that yesterday I saw a rather terrifying figure near her. But when I blinked, it was gone. And the more I try to recall the details of this figure, the more they slip away."

"And you believe this figure to be a fairy?" said Mr Heavensbee, forcing as much contempt into his voice as possible. "I had credited you with far more sense than this, Mr Mellark."

"There is more," he continued. "It is just… it is hard to explain. I am certain there are other illusions surrounding her. And the stories that come from her…. She was convinced that we had met elsewhere, and seemed devastated when I assured her that we had not."

"Did you perhaps notice any small glass bottles about her person? Or a powder wrapped in tissue? The use of laudanum or opium will result in strange fantasies that the user fully believes."

"I do not believe that Miss Everdeen is using either of those substances, sir! Could it not be possible that, perhaps, something has gone awry with the spell that you used to bring her back?"

"No!" replied Mr Heavensbee with a severe finality. "The spell worked perfectly! If it hadn't, she would be dead by now!" He took _A Faire Woode Withering_ from his bookshelf, which was a remarkably detailed description of how magic in England rapidly declined after the departure of the Raven King. Handing this book to Mr Mellark, he said, "Read this. Let us focus on undeniable fact instead of these baseless speculations."

Mr Heavensbee watched the young magician as he opened the book and began to read, but could not help but notice the slight frown that still clouded Mr Mellark's features. Deep within the pit of his stomach, Mr Heavensbee began to grow more and more discomfited. He had never wanted to be associated with dark, fairy magic, and he could not risk the truth behind Miss Everdeen's resurrection being made public. It was most fortunate that all of the books that would incriminate him were safely hidden away in his library at Northolt Abbey, but if Mr Mellark continued to be as astute in his learning, it would not take him long to work out the truth.

___________________________________________

Once again, Cinna was awoken from his waking nightmare by being summoned to a strange place by the gentleman with snow-white hair. They were in a glorious mansion, standing before a huge, sweeping, white marble staircase. Bright sunshine poured in through the numerous windows. This was not the English sunshine to which Cinna was accustomed. And the landscape visible outside the windows was not like any he had seen in London. The sky was too blue, the sun too bright, and those trees were not English oaks or elms.

"Where are we?" he asked the gentleman.

"America," replied the gentleman. "More specifically, Mississippi. This is where your father was brought."

The gentleman said these words in such an off-handed manner that it took a moment for their relevance to sink in. As they did, a cold sense of dread passed over Cinna's skin. "My father?" he said, before hurrying to the window to look outside, on the possible chance that he would catch a glimpse of this man.

A gentleman in a white suit walked down the stairs and Cinna froze in fear at the sight of him. This gentleman clearly owned the house, and by extension, the plantations surrounding it, and therefore all of his stolen brothers and sisters. In England he was often stared at and treated as stupid and ignorant by white men, even those with little to no education. Here, in this slave-owner's home, he could not expect to be treated even so well as that.

"Have no fear," said the gentleman with snow-white hair. "He can neither see nor hear us. But my search for your name brings us here. You see, shortly after whispering your name to you while you grew inside her womb, your mother kissed your father. Her lips passed your name into his. And so an echo of your name resided deep within his bones."

"He knows my name?"

"Not exactly," replied the gentleman. "He never heard her say it out loud. And anyway, he is now dead."

"Dead?" he echoed, as a hollow sensation settled on his chest.

"Yes. Killed for insubordination. They whipped the flesh from his bones."

A wave of terrible nausea threatened to overcome Cinna, and he was forced to grip tightly onto the window ledge in order to stay upright. "So… it is lost?" he asked, trying to deflect attention away from his own delicate state.

"No, not lost. We shall still find it. He was burned, and his ashes fell onto the ground by a peach tree. This is where we shall look next. But in the meantime I have another gift for you. Follow me."

The gentleman walked through to an adjacent room. The spacious and well-lit drawing room contained a single occupant: the plantation owner, who was sitting down to read a newspaper. The gentleman with snow-white hair crossed the room and stood behind the other man, then said in a voice laced with venom, "This man's name is Mr Thread. He is the man who bought your father. He is the man who ordered his death."

As he spoke, the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees, and the man stopped reading his paper and looked up and out of the window, concern on his face. "He does not deserve to continue living. And so I give to you—" the gentleman snapped his fingers, "—his death."

For a moment, nothing appeared to happen. Then the man cried out as if in agony and fell forward against his table. He looked up and desperately screamed for help.

"No one will hear him," said the gentleman. "No one will come."

Mr Thread screamed a second time, and Cinna noticed a splash of deep red across the back of his pristine white suit.

"What is happening to him?" asked Cinna.

The gentleman with snow-white hair smiled and the usual scent of blood and roses filled the room. "He is experiencing every single lash of the whip that he has ever ordered. I will not allow him to die until he has felt every single last sting." The gentleman sat down in a large, leather armchair. "Make yourself comfortable, my dear Cinna. This is going to take some time."

Cinna looked at the man on the floor screaming and writhing in agony. Part of him tried to find sympathy as the man's bloodied suit was ripped apart in front of his eyes, revealing the mess of flayed flesh underneath. But with each scream ringing in his ears, he reminded himself that this man had stood passively and watched as his father and countless others had experienced this exact pain. That he had been the cause of that pain. And so he sat on the chair recently vacated by Mr Thread and watched with a detached disgust at the screaming, writhing man at his feet.

Scream after scream after scream. Mr Thread's torment seemed never ending. His back was torn open, his bones were visible, and his was slipping and sliding in the pool of blood surrounding him. The wails that ripped through the air seemed inhuman, and after what felt like an hour of watching Mr Thread's punishment, Cinna could take no more. "Sir, allow this man to die. I cannot bear to watch another moment."

"You are a kind-hearted soul," smiled the gentleman, but he did not lift the spell operating on Mr Thread. Before long, the invisible whip torturing Mr Thread began to work on the front of his body as well, and Cinna could not believe that the man continued to live and breathe through the torment. No longer able to watch, Cinna turned away, although the man's screams continued to ring in his ears. Only when all the flesh had been stripped from his back, when his right eye was entirely destroyed and his left was hanging from the socket by a thin sliver of gore, when his reeking intestines had spilled across the floor, did Mr Thread finally quiet.

Cinna's breathing was ragged as he gazed upon the broken and tormented body of Mr Thread. A horrifying thought came to him. When his body was finally discovered, the blame would be sure to fall on the shoulders of one or more of the slaves. More innocent lives would be lost, and Cinna did not want to carry the burden of such knowledge. "Sir," he said, his voice shaking with supressed emotion, "we cannot leave this man this way. How will his death be explained?"

The gentleman stood up and walked to Cinna's side, staring down at the remains of Mr Thread. He tilted his head to one side slightly as if to better admire his handiwork. "Remember him as he is now, Cinna. Remember that he received his justice." He then snapped his fingers. The blood vanished, and Mr Thread's body was whole and intact, but he remained dead and inert. "It will appear to any doctor that examines him that his heart simply stopped beating." The gentleman pulled from his pocket a watch on a fine, golden chain almost as thin as gossamer and declared, "But oh my! We have dallied here far too long! I should not wish to deprive my subjects in Panem of your company for another moment! I shall return here to continue my search another time, but in the meantime, Cinna, you and I have a special event to attend."

_____________________________________________

The thoughts of Miss Everdeen that were constantly playing over and over in Mr Mellark's mind were becoming increasingly distracting. Earlier that day, he and Mr Heavensbee had been asked to put an end to a particularly vicious storm that had been preventing a ship carrying necessary supplies from docking in Portugal, but Mr Mellark had not been concentrating, and for a moment he had actually caused the storm and all its rain to appear in Mr Heavensbee's library. The older magician had become furious, even though there was no permanent damage, and had sent him away to study theory for the rest of the day. But as he read about the importance of focus and strength of will in a magician, all he could think about was Miss Everdeen.

He was certain that Mr Heavensbee was not being entirely truthful with him. But he could not risk upsetting him to the extent that Mr Heavensbee would want to end his tutelage. It had been hard having to invent his own spells without any real understanding of what he was doing or what the end result would be. And he was well aware that his few months of study under Mr Heavensbee had barely begun to scratch the surface. If there was another way to learn, someone else who could teach him, then maybe he could risk breaking away. But there was no one.

Entirely unable to focus on the words he was supposed to be reading, he folded a corner of the book down to save his place, aware that he would be chided for his behaviour when the book was finally returned, and leaned back in his armchair. Closing his eyes, he began once again to dwell on Miss Everdeen.

He imagined how her sparkling grey eyes might look if they were lit up with laughter rather than sadness, how that laughter would echo across her soft lips. He imagined how her hair would look if it were loose and cascading over her slender shoulders, how it would feel to run his fingers through it as he kissed her.

It was nearing one o'clock in the morning. His drawing room was warm and comfortable, and from outside the sounds of carriages rolling over the cobbled streets filled his ears. It was a surprisingly relaxing sound. As Mr Mellark crossed his arms across his chest, he allowed himself a small, contented sigh as he continued to think about Miss Everdeen's outstanding beauty.

Suddenly, he found himself in a long, darkened, cold stone corridor. From faraway, he could hear the sound of a crowd cheering. There was something strangely familiar about the corridor, with its tattered banners displaying a white rose on a red background. He did not feel concerned or even overly curious as to how he arrived in this place, and instead decided to explore his new surroundings.

As he proceeded along the corridor, the cheers became louder, until at long last he happened upon an archway that stood before a lowered drawbridge. He paused beside this for a moment. The cheers were coming from outside and did not sound welcoming; indeed, they sounded violent and full of blood-lust, and it was with the greatest of precautions that Mr Mellark proceeded.

The sky above him was grey and vast, and a thousand ravens swooped endlessly through the air. Mr Mellark had a vague notion that those birds were trying desperately to communicate with him, that their flight patterns formed words upon the sky that he would understand if only he could speak their language.

The cheering and jeering was far louder out here than in the castle, and it did not take long for Mr Mellark to find the source. An ancient and decaying amphitheatre was set into the side of a hill, as if clawed out by the hands of giants. Mr Mellark approached the theatre cautiously, making his way along the stone steps and seats, and marvelling at the strange people already assembled.

At long last, he found an empty stone step and sat down, and he was immediately horrified by what he saw. Three men and two women were all locked in mortal combat; several bodies of other fallen warriors littered the floor around them. Mr Mellark tore his appalled gaze from the combatants, as one of the female warriors tore open the throat of one of her opponents using only her teeth. The crowd surrounding him cheered their approval as he desperately fought the rising nausea within him.

A flickering light at the corner of his gaze caught his attention. Four rows behind him and barely a handful of seats along, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, wearing a dress entirely made of flames. And all at once memories flooded back to him. He had been to this strange castle in his dreams before…. No... Not his dreams…. This place was real. The girl on fire…. Miss Everdeen…. She was trapped here, she had begged for his help, and he had awoken with no memory of either this place or their encounter.

He stood up to try and navigate his way towards her, to apologise for his failure but as he began to move, her gaze fell upon him. Her eyes widened in fear and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Sat next to her was a gentleman with snow-white hair, who was watching the violent battle before him unfold with a look of great amusement on his face. Her eyes darted to the gentleman and back to Mr Mellark and seemed to be pleading with him. Above him in the sky, the ravens changed their flight patterns, and Mr Mellark thought that he understood their message: _Danger. Do not let him see you._

He nodded his understanding towards Miss Everdeen and slowly sat down once again, staring resolutely ahead towards the terrible violence. The woman whom he had witnessed tear her opponent's throat open made another kill, and during the uproar he began to slowly make his way back towards the edge of the amphitheatre.

He had to speak to Miss Everdeen once again, and so he watched and waited until at long last the gladiatorial battle finally ceased. From his hiding spot he witnessed the gentleman with snow-white hair descend the steps towards the stage. "My dear subjects!" he called out to the assembled masses. "Allow me to present your champion! Enobaria! Long may she be held dear to your hearts!"

The cheers and cries from the audience were almost deafening. Mr Mellark risked glancing over towards where Miss Everdeen was sat. Her face was impassive as she politely applauded the brutal display. Mr Mellark saw this as his opportunity to try and slip through the crowd unnoticed. If he was in danger, he would need a disguise. His clothes were far too ordinary compared to the fashions worn by this place's strange inhabitants; if he were to stay and speak with Miss Everdeen, he would need something similar.

Several raven feathers had dropped on the cold, hard ground, and Mr Mellark picked these up. He concentrated all of his focus upon these feathers, urging them to multiply and hold together in his chosen form, and before his eyes, the six feathers had become hundreds, and had shaped themselves into a long, hooded cloak. Mr Mellark threw this cloak over his shoulders, and covered his head with the hood, hoping that this would offer him enough protection from whatever dangers the gentleman with snow-white hair held for him.

He completed his creation just in time as the assembled crowd began to file out, and Mr Mellark joined with the crowd, his makeshift camouflage allowing him to blend in seamlessly. He hunched his shoulders in order to keep his face as covered as possible and risked glancing around to try and locate Miss Everdeen.

To his very great relief she was walking alone and Mr Mellark managed to manoeuvre his way through the crowd until he was stood beside her. "I am sorry for my conduct earlier today," he said in a low voice.

Beside him, Miss Everdeen jumped slightly, and Mr Mellark could not help the slight smile that uplifted the corners of his mouth. "That is quite some disguise," she replied once she had recovered herself. "And, pray, why are you apologising?"

"I made a promise to help you, and I was unable to fulfil that promise. I do not know why my memory failed me, but I assure you—"

"Please do not make a second promise that you will, once again, not be able to keep. If you could not remember our encounter before, I have no reason to believe that this time will be any different. I do not blame you for your failure." Miss Everdeen offered him a small, sad half-smile, and he became more determined than ever to help her.

"Who is the gentleman that was sat beside you? Is it he holding you captive here?"

"It is," replied Miss Everdeen.

"Then I have every mind to call him out."

Miss Everdeen laughed in disbelief at his words. "It is very noble of you to suggest such a thing," she said, "but you could not beat him in a duel. His magic is far too powerful for you. And I doubt he could be killed with a mere bullet."

"A silver one, perhaps?" he said with a touch of irony.

Miss Everdeen allowed herself a small laugh, and the sound sent a thrill of pleasure through Mr Mellark's body. It was a glorious, melodious sound, one which he longed to hear again. "Perhaps," she responded.

Together they walked in silence for a while, heading back towards the castle.

"Are all these people here captives, such as yourself?"

"Some are. Not all. And suppose I should be grateful that he still favours me. When he finally grows tired of my company I daresay I shall end up like one of those poor souls on the stage today."

"I will not allow that to happen, Miss Everdeen."

"I wish I could have your confidence in this," she said. "How do you even find your way here?"

"I wish I understood," he replied. "I still wonder if I am not, in fact, dreaming. The last thing I remember was sitting in my favourite armchair and being remarkably comfortable and tired." He did not mention how his thoughts had been so entirely centred on her. Before long, they had reached the drawbridge to the castle and were forced to walk slightly closer together, causing Mr Mellark to become increasingly aware of his heart pumping his blood harder and faster than before.

"Perhaps you are dreaming," she said, looking him in the eyes. "Perhaps that is how you are able to find me here and why you have no recollection on waking. But this place is still real."

"Then I need to find another way here."

She looked at him with pity, and shook her head. "How so, Mr Mellark? How will you find another way here, if when you wake you do not remember?"

From somewhere within the castle, a lone pipe and viol began to play. Miss Everdeen sighed deeply and said, "Soon I shall be expected to dance with my captor, but before I do, I would be most honoured if you would dance with me? It would give me a moment of pleasure to remember in my otherwise bitter existence."

"The honour would be entirely mine," he responded, bowing his head towards her.

They followed the procession into a large hall where the eerie, melancholy music was much louder. Mr Mellark took Miss Everdeen's small hands into his own and, together with a hundred other couples surrounding them, they began to dance.

Mr Mellark's breath caught in his throat at the beauty and grace of his partner. He was almost hypnotized as the strange flames that covered her body licked and flickered over her skin. "Does it not burn?" he asked her.

"No," she responded with a smile. "It is not real fire, see?" She took his hand as if to place it on her shoulder. He flinched and pulled away. "Come now, Mr Mellark. You are not afraid of fire, are you?" she said teasingly.

"Of course not," he responded, and he allowed her to guide his hand to rest on her shoulder, where the mock-flames danced over his own skin. He marvelled that he could not feel them at all. "Remarkable," he breathed. "Truly remarkable."

The music came to an end, and as Mr Mellark bowed to his partner, Miss Everdeen looked beyond him, a fearful look on her face. He turned to see the cause of her upset. The gentleman with snow-white hair was swiftly making his way through the crowds towards them. "Go," she whispered. "Do not look back and do not draw attention to yourself. I shall be fine. Please do not worry for me."

"Will I see you here again?" asked Mr Mellark.

"I can but hope," she responded.

"Leave me a feather," he said quickly. "If you can, leave me a feather in the corridor. That way I might disguise myself once again. I pray that I shall see you again, Miss Everdeen. Please do not give up hope."

"Go!" she hissed, and he melted into the crowd just as the gentleman reached her side.

In Soho Square, Mr Mellark awoke in his armchair, feeling content and at peace. He yawned and stretched, and looked into the dying embers of a fire that had burned in the grate. Miss Everdeen inexplicably came to his mind once again, and with a smile, he took himself to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Court81981 for beta'ing this and to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading. Come and say hi on tumblr if you have any questions! alatarielgildaen

The Duke of Roxburghe's library had long been a source of contention for Mr Heavensbee. Indeed, in terms of size and rarity of books it was second only to Mr Heavensbee's own collection. He had written to the Duke on many an occasion and offered to purchase any magical texts that the Duke might own—for a very generous sum of money. But the Duke was an old and immensely wealthy man; he had no need of Mr Heavensbee's money, and his collection of books was his sole delight. Every single one of Mr Heavensbee's letters had received the same response: that the books were not for sale.

The Duke died an old man with no clearly-delineated male heir, although several distant relatives made the claim to be the next in-line. Many lengthy legal proceedings were brought forth in order to decide who might be the next duke. It turned out that inheriting the vast wealth of the Duke was a very lengthy and costly proceeding, and when at last it was confirmed that Sir James Innes was to be the next Duke of Roxburghe, the library was immediately put up for sale as a means of paying for the debts accrued. Experts were called in to have the library valued. The whole process made Mr Heavensbee extremely nervous, and both Mr Crane and Mr Cato seized upon his agitation as a perfect cause to further their own agenda.

"Do you think they will discover any books of magic?" said Mr Heavensbee, ceasing his pacing for a moment.

"Oh, undoubtedly," replied Mr Cato in his usual bored drawl. "The Duke's library is frequently described as one of the wonders of the modern age. I would be most surprised to hear that he did not have at least one or two magical works hidden away in there."

"But surely, if any are discovered, they will be offered to me to purchase over any other buyers? After all, there must be some records of my many requests to the Duke during his lifetime."

"Certainly that would be the noble and proper thing to do," added Mr Crane. "And I am quite sure that were the new Duke not so deeply in debt, he would sell them to you privately. However, he needs to raise as much money as possible. I think we can expect to the library go up for auction."

"Auction?" said Mr Heavensbee in a horrified voice. "But at auction anyone might purchase them! This will not do at all. They should all be kept together, in a single collection! That is the proper way!"

"Indeed," said Mr Cato. "And I am sure that most people would agree with your conclusion. Magical texts should absolutely belong in the sole possession of England's foremost magician. It is just a shame that not everyone will come to this sound and logical assumption."

" _Most_ people?" said Mr Heavensbee incredulously. "Who on earth would not think so?"

As he continued to pace, Mr Heavensbee did not see the knowing smirk that passed between Mr Crane and Mr Cato. "Why, Mr Mellark, of course!" said Mr Crane. "It is common knowledge how he trawled every bookshop looking for texts before finally seeking you."

"Yes," said Mr Heavensbee, dismissively waving his hand, "of course he wanted books _before_ becoming my pupil, but he has no need for them now."

"Do you really think so?" said Mr Crane, his eyebrows raised. "Of course, you know Mr Mellark far better than we do, but I have been under the impression that lately he has been greatly dissatisfied with his education."

It had been nearly a year since Mr Mellark had begun his tutelage under Mr Heavensbee. And while it was true that Mr Heavensbee had indeed lent him many, many texts to read, there were far more hidden away in his great library at Northolt Abbey. Both Mr Crane and Mr Cato were well aware of this fact. As, indeed, was Mr Mellark.

"But they have to be kept in a single collection!" protested Mr Heavensbee. "And Mr Mellark must surely know this! Besides, I would allow him to read them. After I had studied them, and depending on the subject matter, of course…."

"Naturally," said Mr Cato. "But then, Mr Mellark is a rather contrary gentleman."

"But you cannot possibly believe that he would bid against me in auction?"

"I cannot see him doing anything else," said Mr Cato.

Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of a fingernail for a moment. "When do you suppose this auction will take place?"

Mr Cato sat back in his armchair, entirely at his ease. "The books still need to be catalogued and valued. But I would expect them to be up for sale within the next two or three months."

Nothing more was said on the subject for the rest of the day. But the next time that Mr Heavensbee entertained a member of Parliament, he could not help but mention how vital it was for the war effort to have a young, fit, and strong magician to hand on the battlefield.

\-------------------------------

Cinna found himself suddenly subjected to a rather strange motion. The ground beneath him no longer appeared solid, as he bobbed gently up and down.

Awareness rushed in on him. His first assumption about the ground proved correct; —he and the gentleman with snow-white hair were sat in a small wooden rowing boat in the middle of a vast river.

"I am so glad that you were able to join me, Cinna," said the gentleman, as if Cinna was there by his own choice.

"It is always a pleasure," lied Cinna. He nervously looked at his surroundings. The boat conveying them was rather small and decrepit, and he did not know how to swim. However, the gentleman did not appreciate cowardice, and so he swallowed his apprehension. "Why are we here?" he asked. "And where are we?"

The gentleman leaned back, entirely at his ease. "Once again we are in Mississippi. The search for your name brings us back here. You remember how your father's ashes ended up under a peach tree?"

Cinna nodded, shuddering slightly at the memory of his last sojourn to this foreign land.

"Well, I spoke to the tree. He was a dear old fellow who remembered your father well. Your father's ashes nourished him in a way nothing else ever has, and as a result he was able to produce the most delicious peaches seen on Earth in over three hundred years. One summer's day, a beautiful young maiden took one of those peaches.

"Now, you see how fortune favours us! It so happened that the particular peach she ate was the very one that contained the memory of your name! However, she was a foolish young thing. She had fallen in love with a wicked young man who meant her all sorts of harm. In the dead of night, by the light of the moon and stars, he rowed her to the middle of the river and drowned her. No one but the moon and stars witnessed this."

"What happened to the young man?" asked Cinna, his voice barely above a whisper. "Was he ever caught?"

"He went back to his normal life. No one suspected him of such terrible treachery. All of her friends and family assumed the young maiden had simply run away. But every night, the moon and stars wept for the terrible crime they witnessed. Not tonight though. From now they can rest easy. The wicked man is dead. I saw to that."

A chill passed over Cinna's skin at the idea of what punishment the gentleman inflicted upon this man.

"Anyway," said the gentleman, "we are here to find what we can from the woman and the waters that swallowed her. Row for me, Cinna."

The gentleman indicated the oars which Cinna took up. He was unaccustomed to hard physical labour, and soon found himself short of breath, and felt sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

"Is our destination near here?" he asked, his muscles already aching with fatigue.

"Not far. I will tell you when to stop."

The gentleman lapsed into silence, while Cinna continued to row for what felt like hours. All of a sudden the gentleman held up his hand. "Here!" he said. "This is where the young woman lost her life."

He dipped his hand below the surface of the water and whispered a word, and it seemed to Cinna that the whole of nature listened to him. The river, the sky, the trees lining the bank, the rocks covering the river bed, the birds, the fishes… every living and inanimate thing in the area paid him rapt attention.

The gentleman closed his eyes and listened as the world spoke to him. Cinna thought that he could discern the different languages: the low whispering of the wind, the fast, high paced chattering of the birds, and the long, slow, mournful tone of the rocks. But it was the languid sermons of the river that gave the gentleman his precise answer.

Eventually the gentleman opened his eyes, and a smile crossed his face. Cinna held his breath against the all-too-familiar scent of blood and roses. "She was indeed drowned here," said the gentleman. "The river has expressed her sorrow for her part in the woman's death. She was held under by the wicked man, until the life left her body, then he threw her over the edge of the boat. Her body was cradled by the rocks until she was devoured by fishes. It turns out that your mother's name was eaten by a particularly greedy sturgeon, who was, in turn, caught and swallowed whole by a rather majestic eagle. This is most opportune for us! Your name will yet be found, dear Cinna!"

As Cinna felt himself being transported back to his regular life in London, a feeling of dread washed over him. There was no telling how many more lives would be lost in this strange search for the name his dead mother had given him.

\-------------------------------------------

Miss Everdeen had lost count of the number of dreary nights that she had spent in Panem. Days and nights no longer held any meaning for her, as one rolled into the next. It had been over a year since Mr Heavensbee had sold her life to the gentleman. A whole year wherein she had been unable to speak of the enchantment that transported her nightly to the gentleman's castle.

For the most part it was utterly unbearable. She could not remember the last time she had actually slept. But when Mr Mellark had appeared one night, it was like a beacon of hope. And although he remained entirely unable to recall their meetings during his waking hours, Miss Everdeen held on to the thought that he would one day save her.

There was no rhyme or reason as to which nights he would appear in Panem. At times he would come three, maybe four nights a week, and then he may not come again for a fortnight. Every night, on her arrival to Panem, she would sneak outside and collect several fallen raven feathers, and hide them in the corridor for Mr Mellark to find. She would kiss the feathers before hiding them, as if her kiss would somehow charm them, ensuring that Mr Mellark would indeed find her that night. And then, as she danced, she would desperately search the room for any sign of Mr Mellark's raven feather cloak, feeling despair if he did not show, and elation if he did.

It had been exactly thirteen weeks since Mr Mellark had first arrived in that dreaded dance hall. Miss Everdeen's hawk-like gaze scanned the heads of the other dancers, citizens of Panem and captive humans alike, feeling the familiar anguish that accompanied every night that Mr Mellark did not come.

With a heavy sigh, Miss Everdeen turned back to the crowd, and walked straight into another captive. "My apologies," she muttered, without looking up.

"None are needed," said a familiar voice, one which sent a wave of joy through her.

It took a great deal of effort to maintain a cool exterior. Mr Mellark was wearing his usual disguise, pulled down to mask his face, although his half-smile was still visible. With a boldness that only his presence seemed able to instil in her, she reached out to pull the cloak back ever so slightly, so that she might also see the bright azure of his eyes. When she finally met his gaze, she returned his half-smile. "I did not think you were coming tonight," she said.

"Then it is I who should apologise for giving you cause to fear."

"Do not apologise to me, good sir. You have given me reason to stay alive."

The melancholy music started up, and he bowed to her before they began the dance. He did not have the grace of many of the other dancers in the room and was often heavy footed in comparison, but she found this aspect of him rather appealing.

Tonight, however, his movements appeared almost clumsy. He seemed distracted, and there was a sadness behind his clear blue eyes that set Miss Everdeen on edge. "What is it?" she asked him.

He sighed deeply before answering. "I received some rather unexpected news today. It appears that I am to be sent away."

Miss Everdeen stopped dancing abruptly and stared at him, anger and hurt coursing through her veins. "Sent away? Why? Where? When?"

"The army requires a magician. They have seen the success of us aiding the navy and—"

"The navy has never required you to be sent away. Why should the army?"

"Their demands are far different. They need someone there, with them, who can make decisions on the spot as and when required—"

"You are going to war?" she asked. "To Europe?"

Mr Mellark nodded. "I am. But I see no reason that it will stop my visits here."

"Why you?" beseeched Miss Everdeen. "Why must _you_ be sent away?"

Mr Mellark allowed himself a small, self-deprecating laugh. "England's foremost magician has no place on a battlefield. And there is no one else but me."

The thought of Mr Mellark—Peeta, as she was beginning to think of him—on a battlefield, where she might lose him forever… The thought was almost too much to bear. "You must promise me you will be careful," she said, tears forming in her eyes.

"Of course I will," responded Mr Mellark. "I shall be surrounded by England's finest. I am certain that I could not be in better hands."

"How long will you be gone?" she asked him.

Mr Mellark's gaze dropped to his feet. "I do not know," he answered. "It could be weeks… months…." He hesitated before continuing. "My brother is a soldier. I am sorry to say that I have not seen him for nigh on two years."

The panic that had begun to form at his announcement continued to manifest and grow. "What if…. What if you are unable to find me here?" she said. "What if it is only your physical proximity to my own enchantment that draws you near to me?"

The bright blue of his eyes seemed to diminish somewhat. "It is possible," he murmured. "I admit that this was not an explanation I had considered."

It was already hard enough that Mr Mellark had no memory of their night time encounters during his waking life. But the idea that her anchor to sanity in these ancient and decaying halls could be lost was truly terrifying. For a moment she felt almost faint and lost her footing, stumbling slightly. Mr Mellark reached out and caught her, steadying her, and the warmth that flooded through her at his gentle touch reignited the hope within her. Suddenly emboldened, she reached out to stroke the side of his face, and as his breath caught in his throat, his cheeks immediately turned a deep scarlet.

He cleared his throat with a small, embarrassed cough and said, "Are you alright, Miss Everdeen?"

"Yes," she responded, her fingers still slowly tracing the contour of his jaw. Despite his obvious embarrassment, he made no indication that he wanted her to stop. And she realised that she did not want to stop either. Her gaze dropped to his lips as her fingers spread to cup the side of his face. With almost agonising slowness, Miss Everdeen drew Mr Mellark closer to her.

She had never before kissed a man, and she was not one to read the kind of novels her sister was so fond of, where young women spent their days trying to obtain dashing young husbands, and as such was not certain that her actions were correct. As to whether they were _appropriate_ she did not care. Mr Mellark would not remember this in the morning, and if he were unlikely to see her again for a very long time then her breach of decorum would not matter.

His lips were soft and warm, and barely parted as she pressed into him. Her hand dropped from his jaw to rest against his chest, and she could feel his heart beating strong under her touch. As her grip on the front of his clothes tightened, Mr Mellark's arms enclosed around her, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she finally felt safe, as if his strong arms were able to ward off the nightmare of her current existence.

As he deepened the kiss, she melted further into his embrace, allowing him to set the pace. She gave a tiny yelp of surprise when she felt his tongue trace then push past the seam of her lips, and a groan of disappointment when he suddenly pulled away from her.

"Please accept my apologies, Miss Everdeen," he said, and she noted with a thrill of excitement how flushed and breathless he was. "It was entirely wrong of me to take advantage of you."

"You did not take advantage," she replied. "I wished to give you something to remember me by." She cupped his face once more, both of them fully aware that her kiss was nothing more than just a gesture, and that as soon as he awoke his memory would fail. "Besides, I had to do that, at least once. Who knows when I may get another chance?"

He swept her into his arms once more, placing a series of kisses along her forehead. "Please God, let me remember this moment," he whispered before he placed his fingers under her chin, gently tipping her head back. His lips met hers once more, and this time, as his tongue ran over her bottom lip, she opened her mouth to him and met his tongue with her own. A contented sigh passed his lips, humming into her own, until he reluctantly pulled away from her.

Miss Everdeen looked up into his normally bright blue eyes, and could not help but smile at how his irises were swallowed by his pupils. The adoration in his face took her breath away, before his gaze drifted up and looked beyond her. A fearful look passed over Mr Mellark's countenance. "He is coming," he said urgently, before taking her hands in his own, and pressing both firmly to his lips. "I _will_ find you again, Miss Everdeen. I _will_."

"Go," she whispered urgently, and with one last kiss to the back of her hand, he vanished into the crowds. She watched his retreating form with a burgeoning dread, as if it may be the last time she would ever see him, and shuddered as the gentleman with snow-white hair's frozen touch ghosted across her shoulders.

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Mr Mellark awoke with a start. It was still early, and beyond his curtains he could see the golden glow of sunrise. Furiously blinking the sleep from his eyes, Mr Mellark got out of bed and crossed to his window. He had so few sunrises left on English soil, and wanted to appreciate every last one.

London's usual buzz and bustle had yet to begin this fine morning. On the streets of Soho Square there was barely a soul to be seen. As usual when Mr Mellark was alone, his thoughts began to stray to Miss Everdeen. He had the feeling that he had been dreaming of her, although he could recollect no details of the dream, other than the feel of her lips upon his.

So strange, the effect that she had upon him. Their conversations were few and far between, and aside from their first ever meeting, never private, and each one punctuated by the odd and fantastical tales that Miss Everdeen told. Mr Mellark was still certain that these tales were a result of some discrepancy in the magic used to restore her life and he had begun to document them, noting as much detail as he could on whatever scraps of paper were to hand. But despite the bizarre nature of the stories, there did not seem to be any common thread between them.

Pausing to run his hand over his face, Mr Mellark contemplated the day. He and Mr Heavensbee had a meeting with Alvin Spencer Coin, the Prime Minister—one final, dreary meeting before he was sent to meet his fate.

He hoped that before he left England he might also catch one last glimpse of Miss Everdeen, so that he could have a memory of beauty to take with him to the muddy, smoke-filled hell he was facing. Staring into the bright orange orb as it slowly began to rise above the London rooftops, Mr Mellark wondered if she was awake, if she was witnessing this moment of natural spectacle along with him. His imagination began to run away with him, and he pictured watching the sun rise with her at his home in Woodhay Manor. She would lie back with her head in his lap, making daisy chains, while he would stroke a few loose tendrils of her hair from her forehead, as the sun's rays slowly warmed them both. A tight smile passed over Mr Mellark's lips at the idea of this impossible fantasy.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the fantasy to play out unchecked. He would lie back in the long grass, wrapping his arms around her slender waist, bringing her down on top of him. Her grey eyes would look down into his with utter adoration before their lips would connect.

He held his breath for a moment, listening to the stillness of his home. He could not hear any of his servants moving around as yet; soon Gale would be coming to shave and dress him in readiness for the day, but for now he was entirely alone. Grateful for the solitude, Mr Mellark continued to fantasise about the feel of Miss Everdeen's lips. In his daydream, her body pressed into his, and he could feel the gentle swell of her breasts pushing into his chest. His hands began to roam lower over her body, tracing the contours of her waist, her hips, her bottom….

"Dammit," he whispered under his breath, as he could no longer ignore the way his body was reacting. He would not be able to focus on the day's events while his body behaved so errantly.

Lying back on his bed, he slipped his hand under his nightshirt, gently grasping his erection, slowly running his hand along his length. He focused his thoughts again on the fantasy as he drew his thumb over the head, spreading the moisture, before increasing his speed. The images in his head changed from being thoughts of chaste kisses to far more passionate encounters. He imagined how her breasts might feel under his hands, how soft the skin around her navel might be, and he dwelt upon how warm and wet her centre would feel as he buried himself deep inside her. An intense heat spread across his skin, as every muscle in his body tensed. Biting hard on his bottom lip, his hips jerked upwards one last time as he came with a muffled grunt.

Outside his window, the sun continued her never-ending journey, and Mr Mellark watched her rise for a few minutes longer, before cleaning himself with a handkerchief. Just in time too, as moments later Gale knocked at his bedroom door in order to rouse him.

He remained quiet as Gale sat him on a stool in order to shave him. Thoughts of Miss Everdeen and thoughts of his impending fate battled for supremacy in his mind.

"If you are willing to talk, I am always willing to listen," said Gale at long last.

Mr Mellark paused, still unsure of his own thoughts.

"I have overstepped my mark. I apologise," said Gale.

"No, no," said Mr Mellark. "Not at all. It is just that I find I have far too many thoughts of late, and it is hard to prioritise them."

"Well," said Gale, as he began to brush the soap over Mr Mellark's jaw, "I believe being sent to Europe may be one of the most pressing matters."

"Indeed. I cannot say I am looking forward to the noise and danger of warfare. Nor to the solitude of travel."

"Solitude? But you will not be alone. I shall be with you."

Mr Mellark looked into his servant's eyes, which were full of determination. "I cannot ask you to follow me abroad."

"Nonsense," continued Gale, as he wet the blade and angled his master's chin for the perfect shave. "You cannot even shave yourself. How do you expect to survive a war without me?"

He remained perfectly still as Gale drew the blade up his neck. "I cannot see that remaining clean-shaven is particularly pertinent to surviving a battlefield," he said as Gale wiped the razor clean. "And besides, I could always grow a beard."

"I have other skills and you know it," muttered Gale. "I am a far better shot than you will ever be."

"I never claimed to be good with a firearm. And I am not being sent there to wield a weapon like any common soldier!"

"No, but you will require protection while you spend your hours reciting spells. And I would not trust that protection to anyone else. Hold still."

As Gale drew the razor up his neck a second time, an uncomfortable thought came to him, and nestled in amongst all of his other uncomfortable thoughts. "Gale," he said when he was once again able to move, "I hope you do not wish to accompany me out of revenge for your fallen brother."

A strange look flashed across Gale's eyes. "I wish to accompany you because I cannot stand the thought of losing another brother," he said quietly, before tilting Mr Mellark's head back again. "Not when I could prevent that loss. Once again, I hope I have not overstepped. Anyway, I followed you to London. I hardly think that a war in Europe can be much worse."

"You see me as your brother?" he asked. "I am truly flattered."

"Besides," said Gale, smirking, "I daresay there will be a number of paintings commissioned showing your heroics in battle. You may still require a man to shave you yet." His smirk widened as he continued. "I daresay that Miss Everdeen prefers her heroes to be clean-shaven."

Mr Mellark snapped his head to stare at his servant. "That _was_ too far."

"My apologies, _sir,_ " answered Gale, as he wiped the razor blade clean once again. Immediately Mr Mellark felt a mix of shame and guilt, both over snapping at the man who was offering to potentially sacrifice himself to keep him safe, and over the carnal thoughts he had been having for Miss Everdeen ever since first meeting her. Clearly he was not as good at keeping his feelings hidden as he originally anticipated.

Swallowing his pride, Mr Mellark said, "Do not apologise to me. I am sorry for being short with you. Be honest with me, Gale. What made you say that?"

It was clear that Gale felt discomfort, but he shrugged and said, "Every time she is mentioned something in your gaze softens. You have been this way ever since you met her. And since being in London, you are hardly short of admirers. For a long time I wondered how you so easily ignored all their attentions. Then it became very clear to me. There is only one young lady whose attentions you would welcome."

"I had not thought myself so obvious. And anyway, it is an impossible dream. While she is ill, her father will not welcome anyone courting her."

"If I may be bold, her father would surely welcome it if you were also the one to cure her."

A sad smile crossed Mr Mellark's face. "You are correct once again, Gale. If only any of us knew what was actually wrong with her."

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In times of war, England needed her leader to be a ruthless soldier. Alvin Spencer Coin was exactly that, although some people questioned whether his ruthlessness was directed in the right manner, and whether the sacrifices from others that he so often requested were for the benefit of the country, or to prolong his own stay in power.

He, Mr Heavensbee, and Mr Mellark were in Mr Heavensbee's drawing room in Hanover Square, being served brandy by Haymitch. Mr Coin was clearly used to a different calibre of servant, and Mr Mellark could not help but notice the look of contempt that passed over the prime minister's face as Haymitch set the glasses in front of the assembled gentlemen; in response, Mr Mellark made a point of thanking Haymitch rather more than necessary. He wasn't entirely certain why, but something about Mr Coin set Mr Mellark on edge.

Mr Coin watched the display of gratitude towards the servant, his eyes slightly narrowed, before raising his glass to his lips. He took a delicate sip and said, "To business, then. A ship will be sailing from Southampton to Lisbon in eight days. You will be on this ship, and I am afraid to say that it will be no pleasure cruise. No special arrangements can be made to house you. This is a working ship that will be transporting supplies, and as such, your own comfort will be little regarded by the sailors. You will also have to share a cabin with your servant. I trust that this is not an issue?"

"Of course not, sir."

The prime minister nodded curtly. His silver wig bobbed up and down once, but every hair upon it remained curiously inert, and Mr Mellark felt almost overcome with the entirely inappropriate desire to laugh. He was unsure why – perhaps the realisation of his own mortality and impending fate was causing him to find humour in any available situation. Biting the inside of his bottom lip, he tore his eyes from the prime minister's wig to focus once again on the man's words.

"Once docked at Lisbon you will be able to seek out Wellington."

"And his Grace knows to expect me?" asked Mr Mellark, composing himself.

"He has been written to, yes."

This did not seem a particularly satisfactory answer to Mr Mellark's question, but Mr Coin's wig was still proving to be a terrible distraction and the thought went through Mr Mellark's mind that if he were to reach out and touch it, it would prove to be made of marble or some other smooth material. Once again, he desperately had to fight the urge to laugh.

"Well, that is entirely settled, then," said the Prime Minister, beginning to stand and shaking Mr Mellark from his distracted reverie.

Mr Mellark's heart pounded so hard and fast that he was forced to take a deep breath before he was able to speak. There was still one last and important piece of business to which he had to attend. "Not quite," he said, his gaze darting around the assembled gentlemen. "There is still the matter of the books I will require."

"Books?" repeated Mr Heavensbee, his face draining of colour. It had not occurred to him that Mr Mellark would require books to be taken abroad. The thought of his books on a battlefield, where they might get muddy, torn, burned or blown up… it was almost too much to bear.

"Yes," responded Mr Mellark. From within his coat pocket he withdrew a crumpled piece of paper and handed this to Mr Heavensbee, whose ashen face grew paler yet. "I have managed to whittle the list down to thirty-four."

"Thirty-four!" exclaimed Mr Heavensbee.

"Yes," said Mr Mellark. "I should have liked to include more, of course, but on a practical level, I believe thirty-four will be sufficient."

Mr Heavensbee read Mr Mellark's hastily scrawled note, getting paler and paler by the moment, until his skin had taken on a faintly green hue. Mr Mellark tried to remain entirely passive as if his request were the most natural and unimportant thing in the world, although both men knew that he would never have dared ask if they had not been in the company of such an important man as the prime minister.

With a shaky voice Mr Heavensbee eventually spoke. "You must keep them in a library. As soon as you arrive in Portugal, place them in a library and work strong enchantments around them so that no one else might take them."

"A library?" said Mr Coin incredulously. "Mr Heavensbee, your colleague is going to war, not on holiday!"

"But he cannot possibly take the books onto a battlefield!"

"But it would be pointless to store them in a library!"

"This is true," agreed Mr Mellark. "I will need them to hand, wherever I might be."

"Then… then we will have to have a casket commissioned in which to house them. Good, solid English oak, preferably lead-lined—"

"Impractical," interrupted Coin. "There is not the time to have it made before Mr Mellark must depart."

"Then it can be sent to him later!"

"No. It would be a waste of resources. He must live and travel as all the other soldiers do. We cannot make exceptions. Mr Mellark, you will need a strong mule for yourself and your servant. The books will be stored in saddlebags and carried separately to the soldiers' carts so as not to be a nuisance and burden to anyone else."

Mr Heavensbee appeared almost on the verge of tears. "You must guard them," he said to Mr Mellark. "At all costs. Please. Protect them from mud and smoke and the thieving hands of soldiers."

"Of course," answered Mr Mellark in all seriousness.

After Mr Mellark and Mr Coin departed, Mr Heavensbee withdrew to his library. He took out the precious tomes that Mr Mellark had requested, holding them reverently, gently turning them over in his hands as if nursing a wounded bird. At that moment he wished that he had never come to London. He wished more than anything that he had stayed in Yorkshire with his precious library, restoration of English magic be damned.

As he held his books for potentially the last time, he barely even registered Haymitch's quiet snicker, nor his biting words. "Personally, I believe Mr Mellark will do very well in the war. After all, sir, he has already outmanoeuvred you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always huge thanks have to go to Court81981 for making this much more readable. And also thanks for the suggestion of breaking this chapter down to make it easier to digest - you are right, it will work better this way, I'm sure :) So further thanks go also to nobertsmom and to titania522 for the encouragement.
> 
> This is a bit of a departure from the previous chapters. But I hope you like it all the same. Please do leave a review, they mean so much to us writers, and feel free to come and say hello on tumblr!

Before leaving for Southampton, Mr Mellark spent one last day in the company of his dear friend, Mr Odair. The two men had already consumed a great deal of wine in The Garrick Gentlemen's Club and had returned to Mr Mellark's Soho apartment to continue drinking brandy.

"I cannot believe you got him to agree to lend you those books," said Mr Odair, shaking his head and chuckling as he did so.

"I must be honest, I wasn't sure it would work," replied Mr Mellark, smirking as he poured them both another glass. "Would you like to see them?"

"Really? Do you not think Mr Heavensbee would be most displeased if he knew that you were sharing his private collection with one of those most despicable of men: a theoretical magician?"

"He has entrusted the books to me. Therefore it is up to me with whom I share them, and you, Finnick, are my first choice."

"In that case, share away," said Mr Odair, his smile widening. Raising his glass up high, he added, "My deepest thanks to Mr Heavensbee!"

Mr Mellark rang for Gale to attend to the two gentlemen. Turning back to Mr Odair, Mr Mellark said, "Does Heavensbee still hold sway over you at all?"

"He certainly has not sent his servant to bother me at all since he became established in London. Apparently I am no longer needed. Not that I am in any way upset or disillusioned! I see it as quite a blessing that I have been so entirely forgotten by that gentleman."

"I know his ways appear strange. But he is not entirely bad," said Mr Mellark, determined as he was always to see the best in others.

Mr Odair shook his head and raised his eyebrows at the magician. "He is sending you to war, and you still do not see what the rest of us do."

At that moment, Gale appeared in the doorway and hovered, waiting for instruction. "Gale!" said Mr Mellark, spilling a little brandy as he stood up. "Where are Heavensbee's books?"

"Packed away. Did you require one of them?"

"I do, Gale. Fetch some of them for me, would you?" Turning back to Mr Odair, he continued his defence of his tutor. "Magic is a dangerous business, and it is only right that people are protected from that danger."

"I know that you do not truly believe that, and if you hadn't drunk so much brandy you would not be repeating his words _ad nauseum._ He hoards knowledge as misers hoard money! Why should it be down to just one man to decide what is right for others to know?"

Mr Mellark fought through the haze of alcohol to find a decent answer to that question. And try as he might, one did not spring readily to mind. He was saved from having to answer by Gale reappearing carrying three large leather saddlebags, that he knew contained Mr Heavensbee's books.

"There was no need to bring all of them," said Mr Mellark to his servant, leaping on the opportunity to change the subject. "Just one or two would have been sufficient."

"That was not an option," answered Gale.

"What do you mean?"

"Try and take one. It is impossible."

Gale placed the saddlebags at Mr Mellark's feet. With a frown, he reached inside the first bag and withdrew _Revelations of Thirty-Six Other Worlds_. "What is the problem?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow as he flicked through the text.

"Impossible," murmured Gale.

"What is impossible?"

Gale reached inside the same bag, and Mr Mellark gave a start of surprise as Gale's hand passed straight through the books, as if they were made of nothing more substantial than smoke. Mr Mellark tried once more and immediately removed _The Language of Birds._

"Finnick, you try. This is most curious," said Mr Mellark, straightening up and scratching his jaw.

Mr Odair rose to his feet and reached into the same saddle bag that so stumped Gale. Likewise, his hand passed straight through all the books. He tried the other two saddle bags and could not take a single book from them.

"Well, this curious anomaly is easily rectified," said Mr Mellark, handing _Revelations of Thirty-Six Other Worlds_ to Gale and _The Language of Birds_ to Mr Odair. He immediately gave a sigh of frustration, as neither man seemed able to open the books. It looked as though the books had been carved from wood, and that they were not books at all, but rather impressions of books. Taking the books back from both men, he opened them as normal at a random page and handed them back.

"They are blank," said Mr Odair, handing the book back.

"Entirely blank," repeated Gale.

"Nonsense," said Mr Mellark. He quickly flicked through both books. Text covered every single page. "Are you telling me you cannot see this?" he asked, holding one of the open pages up.

"I assure you, there is nothing written on that page!"

"Well, he cannot stop me sharing what _I_ can see," said Mr Mellark. He blinked his brandy-soaked eyes several times in order to focus on the page in front of him, and began to read out loud, " _There is nothing else in magic but the wild thought of the bird as it casts itself into the void. There is no creature upon the earth with such potential for magic. Even the least of them may fly straight out of this world and come by chance to the Other Lands._ "

He stopped reading and noted the entirely blank looks on the faces of his companions. "You now mean to tell me that you did not hear me speak?"

"No," said Mr Odair. "I heard you perfectly well. But the moment the words left your lips I could not remember them. I know you just spoke, but as to the content…. I am mystified."

"Unbelievable," said Mr Mellark, shaking his head. "It appears that Mr Heavensbee has left nothing to chance. What were you saying about him being a miser with knowledge?"

"Precisely," answered Mr Odair, resuming his place in the armchair. "If I had a library even half as impressive as his I would see it as my duty to share it with as many people as possible."

"Quite," agreed Mr Mellark, sitting back down on his sofa and placing his booted feet upon a stool. He carelessly tossed the two books back into the saddlebag, and ordered Gale to put them back with the rest of his belongings that he would be taking with him to Europe. "But seeing as Mr Heavensbee is the patron saint of booksellers everywhere, neither you or I will ever own such a library."

"Well, what of this book sale? The Duke's library?"

A shadow passed over Mr Mellark's face as he sloppily sipped at his brandy. "I am certain there will be at least one or two treasures hidden in that library. And I am fairly certain that I will never get to see them. Like most of Mr Heavensbee's choicest texts."

"I wish I could afford to bid against him," said Mr Odair, trying to focus on the swirling liquid within his own glass.

Through the haze of alcohol, an exciting notion came to Mr Mellark at that moment. "Bid for me," he said. "I will leave you money, and I will not hide any books that I win at auction from you."

Mr Odair laughed as he spoke. "I believe Mr Heavensbee would likely excommunicate you if you decide to go against him."

"In that case, I will gift the money to you personally, and you can purchase the books for yourself. He cannot stop you showing them to me. It is a flawless plan!"

"I am not certain that we have the same definition of the word 'flawless.'" Mr Odair grinned. "But it is the best we have. How much do you think we will require?"

"I have not the slightest idea. But I would be willing to wager that these books will not come cheaply."

"Agreed."

"A thousand guineas, do you think? Two thousand?"

Mr Odair appeared taken aback. "Do you entrust me with that much?"

"Absolutely," replied Mr Mellark, grinning as he topped their glasses up once more. "Now win me those books, whatever they may be!"

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The following day, Mr Mellark awoke with a blinding headache that was entirely as a result of the huge quantities of alcohol imbibed by himself and Mr Odair. Blearily blinking away the sleep, he reached for his pocket watch that had been left on his bedside table, then sat up in a blind panic as he realised that it was after eight o'clock, and he had a last minute meeting with Mr Everdeen in a little over an hour.

Almost as soon as he sat up, Gale entered his room, bearing a tray laden with a pot of fresh tea and several slices of thick, buttered toast. "Let me tell you now that no sight has ever been more welcomed," said Mr Mellark, gratefully accepting the tray.

"I have already procured a carriage to take you as far as Piccadilly. I thought you would appreciate not having to walk this morning. Eat up. I will help you dress in twenty minutes."

With each bite and every sip, Mr Mellark felt himself more and more revived, although the thought of the ten-hour journey that awaited him later that day was enough to send shivers down his spine. He allayed his anxiety by drinking the entire pot of tea and finishing the toast in next to no time, though he began to grow nervous again as Gale helped him into his clothes for the day. This would be the last time he would get to see Miss Everdeen for a very long time.

"Nervous?" asked Gale, as he buttoned Mr Mellark into his shirt, displaying an uncanny ability to know precisely what Mr Mellark was thinking at any given moment.

"I would be a terrible liar if I said 'no,'" he admitted.

A sly smile crossed Gale's lips as he placed a cravat around Mr Mellark's neck, perfectly tying it into place. "I assume these nerves relate to more than just today's departure?"

Mr Mellark raised an eyebrow, before he conceded defeat. "Yes. You assume correctly."

"My apologies for saying so, but you're a fool, sir. Take it as it comes. Today you have an opportunity to lay your eyes on a pretty girl. You have an opportunity to show her father that you are a brave man. A hero no less. Take the opportunity as it is. For myself, I may take the opportunity to say goodbye to that pretty maid of Miss Everdeen's while I still have the chance."

"I wish it were that easy," said Mr Mellark, stepping in front of a full-length mirror. The cravat Gale had chosen for him was the exact same hue as his eyes. He was quite certain that Gale had not done this by accident. The effect was most striking.

"Your coach is awaiting you whenever you are ready."

The coach took under ten minutes to reach their destination, but Mr Mellark was still more than grateful that he did not have to walk when he felt in such a delicate condition. As soon as the coach pulled up in Piccadilly, Gale leapt lightly from the roof of the carriage to open the door for his master, and Mr Mellark stepped out into the glorious sunshine, wishing more than ever that he did not have to appear so respectable at that moment.

Gale took a moment to straighten Mr Mellark's cravat once more, then left him to head down the steps towards the basement entrance to the house on Piccadilly, while Mr Mellark approached the front door.

He was admitted entrance by Mr Everdeen's butler, Cinna. Even after a year of knowing him, Mr Mellark was so unsure of what to make of the butler. He'd heard that this man had a reputation for greatness amongst other London servants, and yet, for Mr Mellark's part, he had never seen any real evidence of this. He saw nothing major to complain of, but the servant always appeared so tired, nothing like the attentive and fastidious man he'd heard tales of.

As he followed Cinna inside, he was surprised to see that Mr Heavensbee was just leaving.

"I had no idea that I would see you one last time, sir," said Mr Mellark, rushing forward to shake the hand of his tutor.

"Nor I you," replied Mr Heavensbee, returning Mr Mellark's friendly gesture with real enthusiasm. There was a peculiar look in his eyes, one that appeared almost sad. "I shall miss you," he said, and at that moment, Mr Mellark felt a strange guilt over the words he and Mr Odair had said against Heavensbee the previous night.

"You also," replied Mr Mellark. Mr Heavensbee opened his mouth as if to say something in response, then changed his mind, and walked out of the front door.

Mr Mellark watched his retreating form, then was shaken from his reverie by Cinna saying, "Follow me, please, sir."

Mr Everdeen stood by the window in his drawing room, presumably watching Mr Heavensbee leave. He turned to Mr Mellark after a moment and said, "Thank you for coming. I confess that I shall be sorry to see you go. But I also know that you will do England proud."

"Thank you, sir," replied Mr Mellark.

"We have come to rely upon you a great deal. I am not certain what we shall do in your absence."

"You do me a great honour, sir," said Mr Mellark, bowing his head towards the Foreign Minister, "but I am quite certain that Mr Heavensbee is more than capable of looking after England's magical affairs without me. He managed it before, after all."

Mr Everdeen made a small non-committal sound and looked away. A troubled expression crossed his face, and he swallowed heavily before speaking again.

"It is not just England's affairs," he began, pausing a moment to collect himself. The minister took a deep, shuddering breath and then continued— and it appeared that every single word pained him. "After the death of my beloved wife, my daughters were a great source of comfort to me. Indeed, I believe that without them I may well have lost my mind.

"And then, when my daughter fell ill, I felt that reason once again threatened to leave me. I held on to any hope that was offered to me and refused to let go." He smiled briefly to himself before continuing. "I suppose that part of that stubborn nature I have gifted to Katniss. And I fear that she may also have inherited my predisposition for loss of reason."

Mr Mellark remained silent and rapt as Mr Everdeen continued to talk.

"She speaks of you at times," he said, and his words caused Mr Mellark's heart to beat a little faster. "I am sorry to say that very little of what she says makes a great deal of sense, but….when she speaks I see something there. Hope. She has not given up hope of regaining her reason, and I believe that somehow I have you to thank for that."

"I… I do not know what to say, sir," said Mr Mellark. This news that she thought of him as much as he thought of her was very welcome indeed, as was the apparent blessing her father had just bestowed upon him.

"Just do not die out there, Mr Mellark. Do not rob my daughter of her hope."

"I shall certainly do everything in my power to remain amongst the living," confirmed Mr Mellark, his characteristic half-smile uplifting the corners of his mouth.

"I thought I heard you," said a familiar voice.

Mr Mellark turned and there, framed in the portal of the door, stood Miss Everdeen. She gripped onto the frame, as if to support herself in her exhaustion. The dark circles under her eyes and unusually pale hue to her skin also told of her incredible fatigue.

"You should be resting," said Mr Everdeen, rushing forward to aid his daughter.

"I am fine, Father."

"Please, at least sit for me," he insisted, guiding her towards a comfortable window seat. As she walked past, Mr Mellark thought for a moment that he saw a rose at the corner of Miss Everdeen's mouth but the strange illusion was dispelled at a second glance. It must surely have been a trick of the light…..

"I wished to speak with Mr Mellark," she said, as her father helped her sit down. "There is something I have to say before he departs us." She appeared to be steeling herself, and Mr Mellark prepared for the inevitable strange tale that she was about to tell. "The steps of the Bastille were hewn from the side of a mountain in Hell. The souls of the damned were pricked at day and night by demons, until at last those rocks were formed into steps. For many years the Earth wept that such rocks were placed upon her surface, when they should have been forever hidden from civilisation. And so she tried to disguise them. Against all the odds, every Spring dandelions forced their way through the cracks. They gave the Earth hope that one day those hellish rocks would be banished, and they rejoiced with her the day it was finally demolished." She wiped a solitary tear from her eye. "I dearly hope that I shall see you tonight, Mr Mellark."

"Tonight?" he said, and his eyes darted towards Mr Everdeen, who looked as pained as ever at his daughter's condition. "I am sorry, Miss Everdeen. My carriage leaves for Southampton this afternoon. I sail for Portugal three days hence."

"And I remain ever hopeful that will not stop you." She smiled bitterly to herself. "Just as those rocks failed to stop the dandelions." She tried to stand, and Mr Everdeen helped her struggle to her feet, and she spoke once more. "This may be my last chance to say this to you and have you still remember. I pray you stay safe out there, Mr Mellark."

\-------------------------------

Before setting off for Southampton, Mr Mellark managed to greatly annoy his coach driver by holding up the journey: he completely unpacked one piece of luggage in order to search for a book to keep him occupied while travelling. With so many to choose from, he ended up picking one at random and settled himself inside the coach, while Gale rode up top with the driver. _Botanical Uses, Symbolism, and Meanings_ was a good overview of how flowers were used within magic. Mr Mellark opened the book at the first page and soon found the time melting away.

He had been on the road for a good few hours, and the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky, making reading in the low light a difficulty, when he came across a sentence that caused his heart to leap into his throat.

' _Of all the flora in the natural kingdom, surely the rose possesses the greatest variety of significance._ '

The rose? Mr Mellark recalled the fleeting illusion of a rose at Miss Everdeen's lips, a phenomenahe had witnessed on more than one occasion. He formed a tight fist and concentrated with all of his might on the burgeoning warmth within it. When he opened his fist, a softly glowing ball of light emerged and floated up to the roof of the carriage, providing him with more than enough to see by. Eagerly, he read on.

' _Most are aware of the rose's connotations to love and passion, but within the magical realm, the rose may also represent far more sinister intentions. Roses are commonly used in binding and silencing spells and may be of particular use in controlling a victim. It is of worth to note that roses are employed more often within fairy magic than by magicians; this may be because of the wide variety of uses of roses. Fairies will often speak to the flower directly to inform it of its purpose, a feat that only the most accomplished of human magicians may attempt with any degree of success._ '

Heart pounding so hard that he could hear every beat, Mr Mellark considered telling the coach driver to turn around and head straight back to London. The rose at her lips…. ' _binding and silencing…_ ' Surely this was the answer? He had read many tales of fairies appearing in England, and it was well known that they used to capture good English Christians, and kidnap them to Faerie. Mr Heavensbee was convinced that all fairies had left England, but what if he was wrong? Certainly fairies used to favour the most beautiful and handsome men and women, and there could be no denying that Miss Everdeen fell into that category. What if the resurrection of magic in England had reopened the pathways between England and the Other lands, and a fairy had found a way to bind Miss Everdeen to him? It would explain the tales Mr Mellark had heard, that Miss Everdeen was indeed restored to full life at first, and that her strange fatigue did not immediately coincide with her resurrection.

Suddenly unable to focus on the words in front of him, Mr Mellark knew what he must do. Heavensbee had to be told immediately of this new discovery. He knew more about the perils of fairies than anyone else; ever since first coming to London, he had taken every opportunity to denounce them as wicked and mistrustful beings, and he would surely be able to use his knowledge to help save Miss Everdeen.

In his head, he began drafting a letter to Mr Heavensbee, detailing the two instances he could recall of the rose at her lips and his suspicions of what it could mean.

As soon as the carriage pulled up at their hotel in Southampton, Mr Mellark leapt into action, procuring paper, ink, and a quill from the hotel owner. He instructed Gale to go out and find him a horse and rider willing to make an immediate journey. Meanwhile, the letter he wrote to his tutor was hastily written, full of ink splotches and crossings out, but he did not wish to waste a single second.

Ending the letter with the plea of, ' _I beg you reply as a matter of urgency. I should dearly like to know your opinion before I sail_ ,' Mr Mellark went outside into the cool night air to await Gale's return. Within moments he came into view, followed by a lithe rider mounted upon a huge black beast of a horse.

Before handing the rider the letter, Mr Mellark hesitated for a moment, as a terribly selfish thought came to him. What if Heavensbee was successful in banishing Miss Everdeen's fairy tormentor? She was an exceptionally desirable young woman, and once in good health would surely have no end of suitors…. What if he returned from war to find her already married?

He shook the unbidden thoughts away. This was about what was good and right, and his own desires could play no part. He gave the letter to the rider and handed him a guinea. "Take this with all haste to Mr Heavensbee residing in Hanover Square, London. I promise you a further guinea if you return with his reply before my ship sails in three days."

"Yes, sir!" replied the lithe young man, urging his horse forward. Mr Mellark watched until horse and rider sped out of view then finally retired to his rooms. There was nothing now to do but wait…

\---------------------------------

He almost laughed out loud at his good fortune when he appeared in the deserted corridor of the decaying castle in Panem. Clearly, physical distance was not enough to keep them apart. He walked directly to a small, barred window, underneath which was a recess created by crumbling stone. He smiled as he picked one of the five raven feathers hidden therein, transforming it into the mantle he wore as a disguise.

As he walked the rest of the corridor, he pondered on how he had come to arrive here in Panem. He had been thinking of her again as he lay in bed. Thinking of how close he could be to curing her of her melancholy… Perhaps that was how he forged the bridge to Panem; if his last thought before sleeping was of her, did it somehow draw them together? If only there was a way of guaranteeing that she would be his last waking thought.

Almost as soon as this understanding came to him, he was hit by a further series of thoughts. Chief amongst these thoughts was the letter that was currently speeding its way into Mr Heavensbee's hands. A letter that showed that Mr Mellark suspected what Heavensbee already knew: that a fairy was responsible for Miss Everdeen's current condition. It begged Heavensbee for help, and of course, that help would never come. He wondered how his tutor would react, knowing that he was one step closer to being exposed as a liar. A sense of dread settled on Mr Mellark's shoulders as he hurried his way towards the great hall to find Miss Everdeen.

The lack of pipe and viol music led Mr Mellark to believe that there was no dancing tonight. Peering into the deserted great hall, he began to wonder where he might find the castle's usual inhabitants. Listening carefully, he believed that he could hear a few calls and cheers coming from outside, but they did not feel full of the usual bloodlust that indicated a gladiatorial battle. Proceeding with caution, Mr Mellark made his way outside.

As usual, birds filled the grey sky, their never-ending aerial dance appearing almost as a written language. He could spot some of the castle's inhabitants a little way off, two of them engaged in a sword fight, while a few others watched. After a few moments the fight stopped, and one of the watchers stepped forward, repositioning the sword of one of the fighters. As soon as he stepped back again, the battle recommenced.

_They are training_ , reasoned Mr Mellark to himself, _but for what, I wonder?_

He kept walking through the grounds, spying various small groups of people, some fighting in unarmed combat, some throwing knives at various targets. It was not long before he spied a distinctive flicker of fire in the distance, and walked with all haste towards her.

Miss Everdeen was not yet aware of his presence. She stood before a row of targets, a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. Mr Mellark could see from her profile the intense concentration as she focused solely on her target, but there was something else there too: anger. Burning hot hatred for everything in this land palpably seethed out from her. In her anger, she was beautiful. She let the arrow fly straight and true, driving it straight home to the very centre of the target.

As she nocked a second arrow to the bow's string, he began to make his way towards her, his heavy footfalls crunching the bone-dry leaves and twigs underneath. Not even the sound of his approach could distract her from her purpose. She released the arrow, once again hitting the centre of the target. She reached into a quiver for a third arrow, and this time Mr Mellark made himself known to her. "You are as deadly as you are beautiful," he called to her, causing her to start momentarily.

At the sight of him, she dropped the bow and arrow and ran towards him, throwing herself into his waiting arms. "I have been so fearful that I would not see you again," she said, clutching tightly to the front of his coat.

"I am more than happy to allay that fear," he replied, taking hold of her hands and swiftly pressing them to his lips. His eyes met hers, and the flickering flames of her dress were reflected within the silvery pools. He could see her anger and frustration, her fear, her hatred of her existence, but those reflected flames gave the impression of her hope reigniting.

Usually whilst in Panem, Miss Everdeen's hair was warn loose, billowing with the flames she wore, but tonight it was tied in an intricate braid, possibly to keep it from becoming entangled with the bow and arrows. It was an unusual look, one he had never before seen on a woman, and it suited her greatly, enhancing the slender lines of her neck. The very end of her braid laid between her breasts, and it took Mr Mellark a moment to realise precisely where he was staring. He felt a familiar stirring and stepped away from her, folding his hands over himself, lest she notice the distinct bulge forming in his trousers. Clearing his throat with a small, embarrassed cough, he said, "I had no idea you were skilled with a bow."

She laughed a little as she turned away from him and picked up the weapon. "Nor had I. My captor wishes us all to go on a hunt soon. He insisted that we were all capable with a weapon, as apparently our quarry can be most dangerous. I am fortunate that I am still able to prove myself useful. I am certain that others are not so lucky as I."

"And what is your quarry?"

As she drew the string of the bow taut, a humourless smile crossed her face. "We have been told that we will be hunting phoenixes and chimaeras, to re-enact some great banquet he held many hundreds of years ago." Releasing the arrow once more into the very centre of the target, Miss Everdeen turned back to Mr Mellark. "I am uncertain of how much truth there is to this. Part of me suspects that he wishes us to hunt down those captors who have somehow disappointed him. I hope to prove myself incorrect."

"I hope so too," he responded. In the sky above them, the ravens cawed loudly as they twisted and turned, and Mr Mellark craned his neck to watch them for a moment. ' _There is nothing else in magic but the wild thought of the bird as it casts itself into the void_ ,' he thought, remembering the passage from _The Language of Birds. 'Even the least of them may fly straight out of this world and come by chance to the Other Lands_.' He wondered for a moment if these ravens usually dwelled in England, or if they chose to stay here in Faerie.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Everdeen watching the ravens too. There were so many things he had to tell her, from his waking discovery about the roses, to admitting that he had written to Heavensbee for advice. He kept his gaze upwards, desperately seeking advice from the spiralling language of birds.

"What is wrong?" Miss Everdeen's voice suddenly broke through his thoughts, and he snapped back to meet her eyes. "You look concerned. Fear not for me. You are here, and that means that I shall continue to survive."

"I…." His throat suddenly dried. This news was very likely to cause Miss Everdeen terrible distress. "I may have made some progress in finding a way to save you. But I fear I may also have done terrible damage."

He explained everything to Miss Everdeen, and his heart shattered a little when at first he told her of his realisation that a fairy could be holding her captive, as she gave a little cry that was so full of hope, then he robbed her instantly of it, when confessing that he had asked Heavensbee to help her. He saw something in her eyes harden then in an instant, she snatched up an arrow and reloaded the bow. For a moment, Mr Mellark thought that she was going to point the arrow directly at him, before she aimed at the birds circling above them.

"No!" called Mr Mellark, as she released the arrow. He quickly made a complicated gesture through the air, and the arrow's trajectory wobbled for a moment, before the arrow itself dissolved into mist. "Those ravens," he said, slightly breathless, "don't belong to us. I am sorry. I am truly, truly sorry. I know you must be angry with me, with this world, and with everything around you…. But, I beg you—" he looked up at the patterns created by the ravens' flight paths, which appeared both agitated and threatening "—do not do anything to incite any more anger in this place."

"I cannot contain—"

"I know," interrupted Mr Mellark. The flames surrounding Miss Everdeen had grown brighter, as if they were a reflection of the burning hatred within her, and for a moment Mr Mellark was concerned that their heat would also increase with their size. He pulled her into his embrace, and pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I am here. Distance cannot keep me away. I _will_ find a way to save you. I swear to you, I will."

As he placed a series of kisses along her forehead and the side of her face, she seemed about to protest his promise, and so Mr Mellark silenced her by pulling her tighter into his arms, gliding his lips smoothly over her own. His fingers ghosted lightly over the contours of her jaw, as his tongue gently flicked over her bottom lip. He half-opened his eyes, to find that she was already looking up at him. The pupils of her silvery eyes were dilated, and once again, reflected the flames surrounding her. She closed them as she pulled Mr Mellark further down towards her, her hands entwining in the back of his hair.

At long last Mr Mellark finally pulled away from her, breathless, and with flushed cheeks, and smiled lovingly as he brushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead.

"I told you once before not to make promises that you cannot keep," Miss Everdeen said as she began to regain her composure, causing Mr Mellark to chuckle somewhat. Mr Everdeen had not been lying when he said that his daughter had inherited his stubborn nature.

"I will keep it. I cannot make a promise as to when, but I will keep it. May you use this bow and arrow against me if I do not."

"Do you wish me to promise that?" she asked him.

"If that is what it takes for you to believe me, then yes."

Something in Miss Everdeen's countenance softened. "It will not come to that. I believe you." She pressed a further chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, he felt a strange tug deep inside himself, as if something was physically pulling the two of them apart.

Back in his hotel room in Southampton, Mr Mellark awoke alone to the sound of seagulls calling over the cold, grey waters, and to the waves crashing into the harbour.

\----------------------------------

Over the next couple of days, impatience became Mr Mellark's most regular companion as he waited and waited for Mr Heavensbee's response. Just as he had given up hope of receiving anything, and he watched despondently as his luggage was loaded on to the _HMS Conquest_ , the lithe rider on his black horse came barrelling towards him. He leapt lightly from the horse and handed Mr Mellark a sealed envelope.

"Thank you, my good man, thank you," said Mr Mellark to the rider, handing over not one but two guineas in recompense. Heart in his throat, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a six-word note written, not by Heavensbee, but in Haymitch's spiky handwriting: 'Mr Heavensbee will look into it.'

Mr Mellark stared at the disappointing note, and read it over and over, as if this would cause a further explanation to appear. All his waiting, his expectation of a positive response, had been in vain. It was with a heavy heart that Mr Mellark tore the note in half, and walked the gang plank to board the ship, pausing only for a moment to drop the note over the edge and into the sea.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little word for my wonderful beta, Court81981. Thank you Court for everything you do. You're a blessing to this fandom. An absolute blessing, and I don't know what we'd do without you.
> 
> Come and say hello on tumblr - alatarielgildaen, and don't forget to leave a review - they make my muse work faster.
> 
> A couple of lines in this are taken directly from Jonathan Strange so kudos do have to go to Susanna Clarke.

A mere half-day into the crossing, Mr Mellark decided that foreign travel was most definitely not for him. The seas were becoming rougher by the moment, and it took all of his concentrated will to keep the contents of his stomach to himself. His mood was not aided by Gale, who was as light on his feet as ever, and who kept ribbing his master about the state that he was in. They had found their way up on to the deck, and Mr Mellark was leaning over the edge, his normally pale skin having taken on a definite green tinge.

"You haven't eaten all day," said Gale jovially, casually standing by his master and grinning in a most unbecoming manner. He took a bite of some dried and salted fish, one of the ship's standard rations, and waved the pungent morsel under Mr Mellark's nose. "Do you want some of this?" he asked, laughing as Mr Mellark heaved once more over the side of the ship.

"Do you wish to remain in my employ?" asked Mr Mellark, wiping the back of his shaking hand over his mouth.

Gale smirked as he handed Mr Mellark a water skin. "And you thought you could do this without me," he said, chuckling slightly as Mr Mellark took it and slid to the deck, gratefully sipping at the fluid.

"I maintain that I could," he said in defiance.

"Perhaps," mused Gale. "But you would certainly get even less sympathy than you are currently receiving."

"What sympathy? You have done nothing but mock me for the last hour."

"Precisely," said Gale. "And you would receive even less sympathy than that from these sailors." Between the nausea, the constant motion, and the sound of the sea crashing against the side of the ship, most of Mr Mellark's senses were taken up already. Therefore he gave a little start of surprise and felt an immediate rush of gratitude when he felt Gale's hand alight gently on his shoulder. "So let's get you back inside."

The journey from Southampton was supposed to take just four days, but inclement weather on the second pushed their journey back by several hours, and it was nearing midnight towards the end of the fourth day by the time their ship finally docked in Lisbon. So eternally grateful was Mr Mellark to be back on dry land that he almost kissed the ground. While he tried to stay upright, Gale found the location of their hotel, and he guided Mr Mellark to their destination.

Both he and Gale were grateful to find that their hotel was owned by a Mr Barnard Flavius, an eccentric fellow, but at least an Englishman. Their rooms had been decorated in a modern London fashion, with good English furniture. It was a slice of home away from home.

Despite how comfortable his bed was it took some time for Mr Mellark to finally fall asleep; as he lay in bed, he believed that he could still feel the distinct sway of the ship as it rocked upon the seas. Not only this, but there was a very distinct warmth in the air, that could not be persuaded to cool down, despite Mr Mellark leaving his window open. It spoke of an uncomfortably oppressive heat during the day. It was nearing three o'clock in the morning, when at long last Mr Mellark fell asleep atop his bed, the need for any coverings abandoned.

After sleeping until almost midday, Mr Mellark awoke well rested and looked out from his window at the town square below. If this was a country at war, then war was a far more civilised affair than he had given it credit for. He could see a few soldiers milling around; the Portuguese in their dull, brown uniforms, and the English in their distinctive and (at least to Mr Mellark's eye) far-more-manly red. But there was no sense of urgency amongst them, no feeling of important orders being carried out.

Mr Mellark descended to the dining hall. Despite Mr Flavius trying to cater to his English guests' palettes, the Portuguese chef had a habit of adding a distinctly European flair to the food, and Mr Mellark found that the eggs he ordered were swimming in great deal more oil, and were seasoned with a good deal more pepper than he was accustomed to. However, a good meal rejuvenated him from the ordeal of the journey much more than the night's sleep had, and he finally felt ready to seek out Wellington, and therefore his destiny.

He walked out into the town square, the hot sun beating down on him, and strode over to a group of English soldiers who were standing under the shade of the great stone archway.

"Good day!" he called out to them by way of greeting. "I am looking for Wellington. Where might I find him?"

Two of the soldiers looked at him blankly. The other snorted as he tried to contain his laughter. "He ain't here. He's in the Lines."

"I see," said Mr Mellark, not understanding quite what the brash young soldier meant. "And when will he return?"

"Lor', I dunno! Could be weeks. Months. Probably never. He goes wherever he's needed, don't he? And he's needed _everywhere_."

"I see," repeated Mr Mellark, although once again, he did not really understand how this common soldier could possibly know of Wellington's exact plans. "And…. where is he, again?"

"Told you, din't I? He's in the Lines."

Smiling his thanks, Mr Mellark turned away from the unhelpful soldiers and went straight back to the hotel. He found Gale in the lobby, eyeing up a pretty Portuguese maid, and decided that perhaps the soldiers had spoken to him as if he were a dullard because he was a gentleman clearly out of place. Perhaps they would treat Gale more as one of their own?

"Gale," he said, and the young servant seemed to take an age to drag his eyes away from the pretty maid, "I need you to find out where Wellington is. There are several English soldiers around. Go and ask them, would you?"

Gale nodded in understanding of his task and set out into the square. Mr Mellark took the opportunity to peruse a paragraph or two of Ormskirk's _Revelations_ before Gale returned.

"You have discovered Wellington's whereabouts?"

"I have. His location is well known. Wellington is in the Lines."

"But what does that mean?" snapped Mr Mellark, the oppressive heat of this foreign land making his temper rather short.

Gale shrugged. "They said it as if it were the most obvious and natural thing," he said. "I assumed you would know what it meant."

"I am afraid to say that you assumed incorrectly."

"Can you not locate him by magic?"

Shaking his head, Mr Mellark said, "It is the most infuriatingly imprecise magic in the world. I could easily summon a vision of him, but as to exactly where the vision would show…. There is no way to tell."

"Pardon me for interrupting," said a voice, and Mr Mellark turned on the spot, finding himself face to face with their host, Mr Flavius, "but I could not help but hear that you are looking for Wellington. Perhaps I might help? Wellington is in the Lines."

Mr Mellark closed his eyes and swore to place a bitter curse on the next man who gave him this same useless information.

"I am well aware of that," he said, as patiently as possible, "but perhaps you would care to expand on precisely what that means?"

"The Lines? Why! They are the very reason we sleep safe here in our beds with no fear of being attacked by the French! Three lines of impenetrable fortresses built by Wellington. Napoleon dare not cross them, and not even a beetle may pass without Wellington knowing about it! If you wish to speak with Lord Wellington, you would do well to go there."

It so happened that a soldier named Colonel Homes was heading out to the Lines that very afternoon. Homes was one of the older soldiers who still had the fortune to be alive. He was not one for making small talk, and he preferred to ride a little way ahead of Mr Mellark and Gale. The three men had been riding hard for most of the day, and as night began to fall, Homes turned to Mr Mellark and said, "I should warn you, Wellington has been expecting you for some time now. He received a letter from London explaining your imminent arrival some weeks ago." Homes opened his mouth once more, as if he had more important news to convey, but decided against it, and continued to ride onwards.

The further from Lisbon they rode, the more Mr Mellark finally began to feel like he was in a country at war. Burnt-out, hollow shells of buildings littered the countryside, and in amongst the trees, the spoils of war stood. Looted furniture resembling a modern study but minus the impediment of walls, could be seen arranged on the ground. More and more soldiers could be seen, some resting for the night and using whatever materials came to hand as pillows, while others stood around on watch. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air, and the longer they rode, the more Mr Mellark became grateful that Gale had insisted that he make this journey with him. He was more than glad to have an ally at his back.

"Here," said Homes at long last, as he stopped in front of an unremarkable looking house. "This is currently the army's headquarters. Wellington is likely making his inspections, but he will soon return."

Both Mr Mellark and Gale dismounted, tying their horses to the gate post, while Homes rode off. Inside the headquarters both Mr Mellark and Gale fell prey to that curious law which dictates that an uninvited stranger in unfamiliar surroundings will always find themselves in the most inappropriate place possible. On entering the building, the two men found that there was nowhere to sit, and yet wherever they stood, they always seemed to be in somebody's way.

After managing to annoy almost every soldier and officer in the building, a strange and expectant silence seemed to descend before the front doors were flung wide open, and Lord Wellington entered. He was surrounded by officers and soldiers flinging maps at him, asking his opinion, requiring him to sign off on orders.

Wellington stopped abruptly at the sight of the two strangers in his headquarters. Mr Mellark stepped forward and thrust his hand towards the famous General in greeting, then dropped it foolishly when the gesture wasn't returned.

How to describe Lord Wellington? Tall, strong and handsome, he objectified everything great about the British Army. He exuded confidence, and could issue commands with a single glance. He eyed Mr Mellark with undisguised impatience. "And you are?"

"The magician," interrupted Homes, before Mr Mellark had the chance to speak.

"Heavensbee?" said Wellington.

"No, your Lordship. I am Mr Mellark." Wellington looked at him blankly and did not speak. "The other magician," added Mr Mellark. "I am here to serve you."

"I see, magician. You should know that if I could have prevented you coming here, I would have. But seeing as you are here I suppose I should try to make use of you. What I need more than anything is more soldiers. Can you conjure more men for me?"

"No, but—"

"I see. Can you force Napoleon to surrender?"

"No, but—"

"Then what can you do? Can a magician kill a man by magic?" he asked the assembled officers, clearly giving up on asking Mr Mellark anything directly.

Mr Mellark paused for a moment before answering, disliking the feel of the question. "A magician might," he said slowly, "but a gentleman never could."

Lord Wellington nodded. He may not have liked the answer, but it was clear that he at least understood. "Well, Mr Heavensbee—"

"Mellark, your Lordship."

Lord Wellington looked at Mr Mellark in a way that suggested that once he had told him who he was, it was the height of rudeness for Mr Mellark to dare to be anyone else. "Whoever you are, you should know that your presence here is neither welcomed nor needed. I suggest you speak with either the chaplains or the medics and see if there is anything you might do for them, as you are of absolutely no use to me. Good day to you."

And just like that, Mr Mellark was dismissed from his Lordship's presence, and, dejected, he rode back to the hotel in Lisbon. He wrote a very wordy letter to Mr Odair complaining of his diabolical treatment, and decrying Wellington as a pompous fool. However, after re-reading it, he decided it would be very impetuous to send, and tore the thing up.

Instead, once his anger at his initial treatment had subsided, he was more determined than ever not to give up. Mr Mellark figured that if he could perhaps suggest spells to Wellington, it would show his usefulness. He thought long and hard about the best kind of magic he might employ to suitably impress the English general. Weather magic was one of the easiest kinds to perform, and always impressed those who knew little of the inner workings of magic, and so Mr Mellark wrote to Wellington, offering to make it rain heavily, and therefore make the French troops miserable and disconsolate. A few days later, his letter was returned with a hastily scribbled note: _'Denied.'_

Determined to prove his usefulness once again, he wrote back to Wellington with another suggestion. Perhaps weather magic was not as impressive as he originally thought, and something much more biblical in nature would show Lord Wellington how useful he could be. Surely a plague of frogs would terrify the French and leave them open to attack?

Once again, a few days later, Mr Mellark received the single word response: _'Denied.'_

Over and over again he tried making suggestions, each of which were denied with just a single word, until Mr Mellark suggested that he could make the river Tagus rise up and overwhelm the French. This, at least, provoked Wellington into writing him a proper reply. The rather sarcastic response pointed out that the English army was between the Tagus and the French army, and causing the river to flood just to get to the French would be highly inconvenient.

Mr Mellark was at the point of giving up. He and Gale were eating a rather peculiar kind of fish stew, and they had made a game of trying to guess what it contained. He pulled something white and curled from his bowl, and said, "What do you suppose this could be? It looks like a part of someone's ear."

"A kind of snail, perhaps?" replied Gale, his nose wrinkling.

A similar look of distaste crossed Mr Mellark's face as he examined the thing even closer. "Do you want it?" he said after a while, offering the morsel to Gale.

"No, thank you," replied Gale, sighing deeply as he looked into his own bowl. "I appear to have several of my own."

Mr Mellark roughly pushed his bowl away, his appetite vanishing almost instantly. He wanted to go home, to return to England, away from this oppressive heat, away from the strange food, and away from the feeling of uselessness that had been his constant companion since arriving.

Their host, Mr Flavius, must have noticed how despondent Mr Mellark looked, for he came over at that point with a bottle of wine, and poured a glass for Mr Mellark, for Gale, and finally for himself. "It appears to me that you are feeling rather friendless at the moment," he said as he sat down beside them.

Mr Mellark stared at his host, unsure of what to say over such a breach of decorum, while Gale clearly fought to contain his own laughter.

Mr Flavius continued speaking, apparently unaware of the stares that befell him. "Pray tell me, in what ways have you tried to help so far?"

"I offered to send heavy storms to make the French uncomfortable—" began Mr Mellark, and Mr Flavius cut him off, laughing as he spoke.

"Well, goodness me, I imagine that suggestion was scorned at!"

"It was denied, yes," he answered impatiently.

"Well, of course it was," confirmed Mr Flavius, shaking his head and taking a sip of wine. "In their current positions, our English soldiers have access to water, while the French have none. The French army are praying for heavy rain to quench their thirst! What else?"

"I thought that a plague of some kind, a rain of frogs perhaps, might put the fear of God into them."

Mr Flavius laughed harder than ever. "Oh, dear me, surely not?"

"And what is the matter with that?" asked Mr Mellark.

"Part of Wellington's plan is that the French starve. And they eat frogs! You may as well have offered to send them a rain of roast chickens and potatoes!"

"Well, how was I to know of Wellington's plans? He will not tell me how I might help!"

Mr Flavius smiled a very knowing smile. "Again, you need friends. Life out here is nothing like the life you are used to back home," he said, raising his glass and taking a hefty swig. "There is no need to wait for someone to make introductions in order to make friends. Simply take a few bottles of champagne or brandy and a barrel of tobacco, and go and talk to the officers and soldiers yourself. If you wish to take my advice, the problems you are facing stem from the fact that you have stayed here rather than going and living with the soldiers. You will soon find a way to help them, I am sure."

The following day, Mr Mellark and Gale rode back to the area behind the Lines that was occupied by the English Army. They had purchased a donkey and cart, and had laden it down with a large barrel of tobacco as well as crates of champagne and brandy. Before leaving Lisbon, they found a reputable silk maker who sold them a decent-sized tent, which was also stowed in the cart.

At first the soldiers were unsure what to make of the strange English gentlemen proclaiming to be a magician. None of these men had set foot on English shores in at least two years, and had not seen first hand the revival of magic to which their fellow countrymen were so accustomed. But they soon realised that a great deal of merry conversation—as well as a ready supply of drink and tobacco—could always be found within the magician's tent.

Every other day it seemed that the army would march onwards, and each time, Mr Mellark and Gale would pack up their tent, load their cart and donkey, and follow the army to their new destination. New headquarters would be set up in any abandoned buildings nearby. These could be anything from quaint little cottages to glorious, sprawling mansions. Wellington did not mind, so long as they were secure.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Mr Mellark had still not found a way to prove his worth to the army. After travelling and marching with the army for nearly two weeks, Mr Mellark was exhausted. He looked over at Gale who was already asleep and snoring gently. He suddenly recalled Gale's words and advice regarding Miss Everdeen, to simply take the opportunity to say goodbye to a pretty girl.

In his exhausted state, his mind began to mix his two trains of thought together. He had indeed taken that opportunity to say goodbye. If only an opportunity would open up for him here in Portugal. He wished he could have said more to Miss Everdeen. Gale could never possibly understand how much easier it was for the serving classes to be so open with their feelings. He was a gentleman. He should not be subjected to the rude and degrading treatment he had faced since his arrival…

He tried to recall the details of Miss Everdeen's face and was suddenly overcome with the desire to sketch her. As quietly as he could, so as not to wake Gale, Mr Mellark found some paper and charcoal amongst his belongings. His hand was swift and sure as it flew across the paper, and in next to no time at all, he was staring into the sad gaze of Miss Everdeen's argentine eyes.

Outside his tent, he could hear the quiet conversation of soldiers as the guards changed, meaning that it was around two o'clock. He would have to try and snatch a few hours sleep if he were to be well enough rested for the march in the morning.

His fingers ghosted once more over the outline of Miss Everdeen's face, before he folded the sketch in half and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. He rested his head against a makeshift pillow made from a thick wool travelling cloak, and soon drifted off to sleep.

As soon as he appeared in Panem and created his disguise from the hidden feathers, he ran towards the great hall. It had been weeks since he had last been here in Panem, and Miss Everdeen was sure to be going out of her mind in worry and despair.

Ducking inside the great hall, he quickly spied her in the very centre of the dancers, twirling and spinning before the gentleman with snow-white hair. There was a hungry look in the gentleman's eyes, one that sent a chill straight to Mr Mellark's spine. Whilst she was dancing for the gentleman, there was very little that Mr Mellark could do other than wait and watch. Amongst the crowd, he spotted Cinna, resplendent in a beautiful suit that was such a dark blue, it appeared almost black. It was the night sky woven into velvet, and the butler looked like a regal African prince as he danced gracefully with his partner.

It felt like several hours that Mr Mellark watched and waited at the sidelines, for the gentleman with snow-white hair to leave Miss Everdeen alone. At long last, the gentleman bowed to her and stalked away, and Mr Mellark began his approach towards her. As he made eye contact with her, he could not help but feel the smile that spread across his face, especially as she hurried towards him. He was, however, entirely unprepared for the hard and powerful slap to the side of his face, nor for her to then wordlessly grab his wrist and march away, pulling him in her wake.

They slipped unnoticed away from the crowds, and once they were alone, Mr Mellark turned to Katniss and took her hands in his own. "I am so so—"

She cut him off immediately by pulling away from his grasp and slapping him once again. Absolute fury blazed in her eyes and Mr Mellark felt himself shrink slightly under her intense glare. He opened his mouth to try and appease her, and this time she silenced him by pressing her lips firmly against his.

The kiss was a peculiar mix of heat, anger, and desperation. Her teeth scraped almost painfully along his bottom lip as her fingers pulled at his hair, holding him completely still. He was taken so entirely by surprise by her that at first he failed to return her kiss, but as soon as his senses caught up, he tentatively wound his arms around her, pulling her body flush against his own.

Once again, Miss Everdeen's reaction took him entirely by surprise, as she suddenly pushed him away from her, lashing out once again, striking his arms and torso in her rage.

"I am truly sorry, Miss Everdeen—"

"Where were you?!" she cried, tears falling down her face. "You said that distance would not prevent you coming, so where have you been? Do you have any notion of how worried I have been? I thought that perhaps you had been killed! I have been sick with worry, waiting every day to hear news of your death, and now you arrive, and you smile, and you act as if no time has passed—"

"Miss Everdeen, please… I cannot express how sorry I am to put you through such worry. But I am here now—"

"And for how long?" she interrupted. "And when will you return?"

Her eyes darted over every inch of his face, as if she were seeking the answers to her questions on his very skin. "I don't know," he confessed to her at last. "I have no means to guarantee my arrival here. I believe…." He paused and swallowed heavily, unsure of how to proceed. "I believe that it is my thoughts of you that bring me here. If you are on my mind as I fall asleep, it seems that I visit you here in my dreams."

Her expression softened somewhat as she spoke, "You were thinking of me?"

"I had been attempting to draw you," he admitted. "I did not wish to forget your face."

She kissed him once again, but while her last kiss had been full of rage and hurt, this one was languid and gentle, and the flames that comprised Miss Everdeen's dress seemed to diminish somewhat.

He gave a little sigh of protest as she pulled away from him once more, and the two of them began to walk hand-in-hand down the deserted corridor.

"How are your archery skills progressing?" he asked her after a while.

"Very well, thank you. I was relieved to find out that I was incorrect in my assumption about the hunt. We were not tracking humans after all."

"There are phoenixes and chimaeras in this land?"

"There are. Or at least, there were. My captor was bloodthirsty during the hunt. I would not be surprised if there are none left now." There was no regret in her voice. Her prolonged incarceration had left her with little love of the land.

"Well," said Mr Mellark, in an attempt to make light of the situation, "I would be most intrigued to know what chimaera and phoenix tastes like."

"I cannot tell you. The food was for fairy folk only. We did all the work, we risked our life and limb to feed them, and they gorged themselves over and over, making themselves sick, only to gorge themselves again, while us human captives had nothing."

"I should not fret too much. I imagine that a phoenix would be burnt and overcooked, while a chimaera probably is rather tough and bitter-tasting. I cannot imagine that you missed out on much."

She laughed then at his words, and it was a musical, joyous thing to hear. The sight of Miss Everdeen smiling—and this was a genuine smile, not one tinged with sadness or regret—made her beauty shine all the more. Wearing her dress of flames, smiling at his words, she became as radiant as the sun. His hand gently cupped her chin and he leant in towards her, pressing his lips to the corner of her smile, before he enveloped her in his arms and rested his forehead against hers. "This is how I wish to see you," he whispered to her. "How I should like to remember you. Smiling. Laughing. Always."

"Then try," she whispered back. "Try and remember."

Her hands pulled into his hair as their mouths melded together, and Mr Mellark wrapped her even tighter into his arms. Tiny mewls of pleasure escaped her throat as his tongue flickered boldly along hers, and she gave a gasp of surprise as she felt a definite hardness pressing into her.

Panting for breath, he stepped away from her, heat creeping across his cheeks and reddening them as if he were wearing rouge. Clearing his throat with a small, embarrassed cough, he said, "I shall certainly try."

The music from the great hall drifted back to them, and Miss Everdeen's smile slowly faded. "I cannot be gone long," she said sadly, her voice echoing slightly, "lest he notice my absence. I am sorry that I have failed to ask after your own wellbeing. While my life here is tortuous, it is at least safe. How are you finding being at war?"

Mr Mellark picked up on the change of subject gratefully, and the two of them slowly began to walk back towards the hall as he spoke. "It is not so much hazardous as it is enormously uncomfortable. There is a lot of dirt and noise, and very little in the way of appetizing food, and I feel as though I am entirely superfluous. No one quite knows what to do with me."

"Do you believe they may send you home?" she asked, hope uplifting her voice.

He shook his head. "No. No I shall just continue to get in everyone's way until they find a use for me, no matter how mundane. They will not send me home so soon. In the meantime, I shall have a rather accurate sketch of you for company during the day, and I shall just have to hope for more of your genuine company at night."

"I hope so too," she responded. "Think of me. In the heat of battle it must be hard, I know, but try and think of me."

It was with a renewed sense of optimism that Miss Everdeen returned to the dance in the great hall. And whether it was her words or mere coincidence he did not know, but from then on Mr Mellark happened to look at the drawing in his breast pocket more often than not before falling asleep, and his raven feather cloak was seen more and more within the decaying castle at Panem.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thanks to Court for being such an awesome beta and friend. Huge kudos to you, gal :)
> 
> Also, endless thanks to lurkinginthecorner for help with French translations. Dunno how I would have done this without you!
> 
> Come and look me up on tumblr - alatarielgildaen - and say hello. Reviews are, of course, most welcome :)

It had been several weeks. Mr Mellark was still of no real use to the army, other than as a morale booster to the soldiers, who found his company charming. One evening, he was chatting to an impressive young officer named Paylor, as well as some of the soldiers under his command. "Tell me," asked Mr Mellark as he opened yet another bottle of champagne and poured the assembled party a glass each, "what is it that you desire most?"

Paylor ruminated quietly on this for a moment, while the other soldiers shouted out their own suggestions. These varied from pots of gold, to a hundred beautiful wives, to houses carved from ivory and diamond. "Roast beef and suet puddings!" shouted a soldier named Jackson, a Welshman with an easy sense of humour, and the entire crowd roared in appreciation.

Meanwhile, Paylor said in a reasonable tone, "New boots. It's these blasted Portuguese roads, you see. They wear your boots to nothing, and after a day's march, you're exhausted and aching and unable to move. Oh, but if I had new boots! Wouldn't I just be able to have a crack at Napoleon then!"

Mr Mellark smiled his thanks. The very next morning he rode to the army's newest headquarters. This was a beautiful home, once owned by a very rich gentleman who had died the previous spring. Since his death the grounds surrounding his home had grown wild, and the scent of lilacs filled the air. Mr Mellark breathed in the heady scent as he approached. Colonel Homes was inside, and Mr Mellark inquired as to whether Wellington was present.

Homes glanced towards a closed set of double doors. "He is indeed," he answered.

Mr Mellark followed Homes' gaze, alighting on the closed doors. His quarry was so close within reach…"Might I speak with him?"

"Absolutely not. They are busy making plans for tomorrow's march. He will not be disturbed."

"I see."

At that moment, a second officer appeared and complained that some of their French prisoners would have to be moved, for they had been discovered eating the remnants of a chicken that they had been locked up with, and that Wellington would not be pleased when he found out.

"The road between here and the army's camp was astoundingly bad," mused Mr Mellark, causing Homes and the other officer to stare at him incredulously. "I cannot tell you how many pot-holes my horse nearly fell into on the way."

"Quite," agreed Homes impatiently, turning away from the magician. "Leave them where they are. Perhaps if we leave them long enough they'll decide to eat each other, and they will no longer be of our concern."

"I daresay the roads we march along tomorrow will be just as bad," continued Mr Mellark.

"Indubitably," said Homes, still not looking at Mr Mellark.

"Perhaps you would care to tell his Lordship that if he would permit me to, I could easily conjure a good road for his soldiers to march along. I imagine it would aid their progress tremendously. Good day to you."

Mr Mellark returned to his tent to wait. Gale had already assimilated into the life of a soldier, which meant sleeping at any time and anywhere, and Mr Mellark found him curled up in the corner, his head resting on one of the leather satchels that contained Mr Heavensbee's books. Far from chiding him, Mr Mellark allowed him to continue to sleep.

It did not take long for him to receive a response. For just under an hour he paced around the tent, occasionally peering outside, and with only the sound of Gale's regulated, heavy breathing for company. He was just sitting down to a simple lunch of bread and cheese when a young messenger entered the tent.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I have an urgent summons from Lord Wellington. He bids you return immediately with me to see him. He wishes to discuss the road."

Mr Mellark gave a curt nod as the messenger left. With a smile, he grabbed his travelling cloak, and left the comforts of the tent, certain that at last he would be able to prove his usefulness.

By the time Mr Mellark arrived back at the Headquarters, he was a nervous wreck. This was his chance to prove his worth at last. Almost as soon as he entered through the front door, Wellington strode forward to greet him.

"This road, Merlin. What kind of road would it be?"

"Well, that would be entirely your choice, sir. The details are the easiest thing. A chalk road, perhaps?"

"Certainly not. Too dry and dusty in the heat, and if on the off-chance it rains, it would turn to a river of mud. No, a chalk road will not do at all."

"How about a cobbled road?" suggested Homes.

"I think not," replied Wellington. "Cobbles will wear the men's boots out."

"And besides," added a fox-faced, red-haired officer wearing the uniform of the Cavalry, "the artillery will not like it. They will have the devil of a time trying to drag guns along a cobbled road."

"Something along the Roman design would be best, I believe," said Wellington, after a moment's consideration. "With wide flat stones, and a ditch along the side for drainage. Is that possible?"

"Entirely so. I would just need you to show me on a map where it needs to be."

Wellington nodded thoughtfully before speaking once again. "My only concern is that the French will be able to use it as well. I have no desire to aid them in their endeavours."

"That is also easily rectified. I can ensure that once the last English soldier has marched over, it will begin to fade within the hour."

The ghost of a smile passed over Wellington's lips. "Well, Merlin. It looks like we've found a use for you at last. Do not disappoint me."

"I will do my best, sir."

The following day, Wellington could not sing Mr Mellark's praises loudly enough. He had very few qualms with the road, his only concern being that next time it could be a little wider, but as he rode alongside his marching troops atop Copenhagen, his favourite horse, he generally could not have been happier. The army made tremendous progress and arrived at their camp much faster than usual, and in a much more comfortable state.

Soon requests started coming in from many other generals wishing for Mr Mellark to conjure roads for their troops too. Mr Mellark could often be found in his tent, awake well into the early hours of every morning, ensuring that the roads would be in place for the soldiers the following day. Naturally, the French became very curious about these vanishing roads, and wondered where they might lead, and if it were possible to use them as well before the disappeared. Local Portuguese citizens began to bandy around rumours that returned to the French ears that once the roads vanished they took any still upon them straight back to Hell—or even worse—England. And so the French avoided them at all costs. Some citizens even began telling the French soldiers that roads that had been in use for centuries had been conjured by the English magician, forcing the French to seek other, more circuitous and less comfortable routes.

Wellington could not have been more pleased.

*********************

Many novelists seek to highly romanticize war, preferring to skirt around the harsh realities. However, even the most romanticized views fail to capture to exciting life of the Exploring Officers. It was the job of these English heroes to spy upon the French, steal their letters home to their loved ones, and know precisely what the French would be doing, often before the soldiers themselves knew.

The best of the Exploring Officers was Major Charles Horatio Boggs. The French army could often see him spying upon them from a hilltop, the distinctive glint of his telescope giving away his position. By the time the French managed to get soldiers within firing distance of him, he had vanished into the countryside. The French found this most disconcerting.

One morning in early April 1812, Major Boggs found himself in the unenviable position of being caught between two advancing French troops. He ducked into the cover of some nearby trees, and perhaps could have had some success in hiding, were it not for the fact that Major Boggs considered himself a patriotic soldier first and foremost, and a spy second, and refused to take his uniform off under any circumstances. The gleaming scarlet of his coat was easily visible through the trees, and Major Boggs was taken prisoner.

This came as a great blow to the English army, who sought to rescue him at any cost. Spanish and Portuguese guerrilla groups were hired to try and extract the major, and each attempt was met with failure, until Mr Mellark was consulted to see if there was anything he might do to aid the rescue.

Mr Mellark spent a whole night consulting passages from Heavensbee's books before he made a decision regarding Boggs' rescue. Exhausted, the following morning he ordered a coffin-like box to be made up, large enough to hold a man. Inside this coffin, he placed a man-sized figure formed from clay that had been carefully dressed in an officer's uniform.

One particular group of Spanish guerrillas were led by a formidable general nicknamed as Thresher by the English army. This brute of man had once been a farmer, and had earned his ironic nickname by separating the heads of French soldiers from their bodies. He wore a necklace of teeth about his vast neck that gave the impression of the French still chattering in fear of him, even after death.

It was Thresher's group of guerrillas that were hired with the promise of silver and weapons to aid Mr Mellark in rescuing Boggs. Their instructions were simple: all they had to do was to attack the French camp, ensuring that all the soldiers were busy at an exact time. "Should we try to save _El Bueno_ Boggs?" asked Thresher.

"Leave _El Bueno_ to me," replied Mr Mellark, shaking his head.

The guerrillas attacked at dusk and, as Mr Mellark had instructed, they did not get close to Boggs.

Thresher and his men were most surprised to return back to the English camp to find the coffin pried open and upturned, Major Boggs sat upon it, sharing a glass of red wine and a cigar with Mr Mellark, and laughing heartily at a private joke.

But their surprise was nothing compared to that of the French soldier who took Boggs his evening meal after the excitement of the guerrilla attack. As he placed the meagre offering of bread and cheese before the English major, a strange thing happened. The major seemed to shrink somewhat before the soldier's eyes and, to the young man's horror, his whole body began to collapse until there was nothing but a pile of dust and a discarded uniform before him.

*****************************

In retaliation for the incredible and seemingly impossible rescue of Major Boggs, the French army carried out a series of planned raids. During these raids, several allied cannon were stolen. This was a severe blow to English morale, and Wellington called upon Mr Mellark to retrieve them by utilising the same magic employed to save Boggs.

"I am sorry, sir, but that spell works on living beings only. I cannot switch the inanimate for the inanimate."

"You mean to say we shall have to retrieve them the old-fashioned way, with raids of our own?"

"I am sorry to say that yes, that is the case."

The English army tracked the French to Salamanca, although the Exploring Officers were able to find no traces of the missing cannon.

Instead of retreating further, the French army decided to hold their ground at Salamanca, and Wellington prepared his men to fight. Mr Mellark fought hard to quell the rising nerves within him; this would be the first real battle that he saw.

Before Wellington gave the order to attack, one of his _Aides-de-camps_ appeared at the English camp with an urgent message: _Hold fast. Help is on the way._

It did not take long for the second army to appear, and Mr Mellark felt his nerves start to calm somewhat, reassured by their swelling numbers, until he noticed a distinct mop of blond hair amongst the officers on horseback.

"No," he whispered to himself, before urging his horse forward.

His brother had not yet noticed him and was issuing orders to a troop of artillerymen, when Mr Mellark called out his brother's name. "Rye?"

At first, the captain snapped his head up, ready to admonish whichever soldier happened to have called him by his given name. As soon as his eyes fell upon his younger brother, however, Captain Mellark's jaw dropped and he leapt lightly from his horse, hurrying towards the young magician. Mr Mellark climbed down from his own steed and rushed forward, the two men embracing one another for the first time in two years.

"I had heard rumours that you were here," said the young captain, still clutching tightly to his brother. "I was not sure I could believe them. "

"It depends on what those rumours are," replied Mr Mellark as he pulled away from his brother at last.

"I confess I have heard strange things out here. Is it true? That you are one of the two great magicians of London? I refused to believe it until I see it with my own eyes."

"It is indeed true."

"I need more proof than just your word, brother," said Captain Mellark, laughing. "You forget that I have known you and your silver tongue too long."

A wide smile spread across Mr Mellark's face. "Indeed. And I have known your doubting self for too long. Come with me."

Back in Mr Mellark's tent, it was the work of but a few moments for him to set up his silver dish, filing it to the brim with water. He drew his fingers over the surface of the water, and almost immediately a woman with soft golden curls piled on top of her head could be seen in the depths of the basin. Her rosy cheeks were flushed as she sat, smiling and laughing at the antics of a young kitten at her feet.

"Delly?" whispered Captain Mellark, moving his face closer to the water. "Is she…?"

"This is what she is doing right now," said Mr Mellark, stepping closer to his brother. "I thought you should like to see her. She is happy. And, last I heard, still unmarried. I am certain she is waiting for you to return."

A contented smile settled itself upon Captain Mellark's face as he continued to watch. Tearing his eyes away at long last, he turned back to his brother and said, "Thank you. For reminding me what I am fighting for. And what of you? Is there a woman back at home who has finally captured your heart?"

Mr Mellark thought of Miss Everdeen, and of his secret longing for her. He had promised himself not to summon visions of her, fearful of what they might show. He was afraid that Heavensbee had saved her, and that he would be forced to witness her fall in love with another. He was equally afraid to see that he had been incorrect in his hypothesis regarding a fairy tormentor, and to witness her still languishing in her melancholy.

"We shall see," he said eventually, refusing to meet his brother's gaze. "We shall see."

Before Mr Mellark was able to expand on his rather cryptic comment, a young soldier opened the curtain to Mr Mellark's tent. "Sorry to interrupt, sirs, but Lord Wellington needs to see the magician."

"I hope to find out more about this mysterious lady in due course," said Captain Mellark, winking at his younger brother, as the magician left the confines of his tent.

"Merlin!" shouted Wellington over the noise of the surrounding army as Mr Mellark approached him. "I need you safely out of the way. See that hill?" he asked, pointing as he spoke. Mr Mellark nodded. "You will get a good view of the battlefield from there, and will be safe from the French guns and cannon. Do what you can to aid us. If I need anything in particular I will be sure to let you know."

Gale followed Mr Mellark, and from their vantage point they could clearly see the valley below, and the two amassing armies. Then with a great cry that rose up out of the valley like a banshee's wail, the two armies began to charge.

Mr Mellark watched with a detached kind of fear. His brother, with whom he had only just reconnected, was one of those many soldiers below, possibly hurtling towards his own death.

Very soon the arena below was filled with thick smoke from the cannon, and the bodies of the fallen could be vaguely discerned as soldiers and cavalry marched on over them. And soon orders began coming in thick and fast from Wellington, sent up to Mr Mellark via his many aides. Trees were moved to create better cover. The ground beneath French feet was turned to wet, cloying mud in order to slow down the cavalry. And yet still the French morale held fast, while the English appeared to be breaking.

Mr Mellark wondered if he could summon any visions that might help to destroy the French morale, thereby giving the English an advantage. But he knew from experience that it was best not to attempt anything without Wellington's say-so. He gave orders to Gale to ride as swiftly to Wellington as he could, and to ask the General for his permission, giving him precise details about the nature of the visions he wished to summon. His servant raised an eyebrow and chuckled slightly as he mounted his horse and rode away.

"God speed," whispered Mr Mellark as he turned back to watch the progress of the battle below him. An indeterminate amount of time passed. He vaguely began to wonder if the world had always been this way: a constant warring battle filled with gunfire and the agonised screams of the dying.

Eventually he heard a horse's footfalls and the sound of the horse being dismounted from behind him. "What is Wellington's response?" he called out to Gale.

But it was not Gale's voice that responded to him. Instead, he felt a cold cylinder of metal as it pressed into the back of his head, and his heart began beating furiously in fear.

"Vous êtes le magicien, je me trompe?" said a harsh voice.

"Oui," he whispered in response, sinking to his knees and raising his hands above his head in supplication. His eyes darted frantically around to try and see if there was a way out of this, but nothing immediately came to him. He whispered a silent prayer to God, expecting to meet his maker at any moment.

"Alors saluez Lucifer pour moi," said the French soldier, and as Mr Mellark heard the click of the pistol being cocked, a dark spell that he had once heard tell of suddenly came to him. He twisted his hand sharply towards the soldier, and looked up, as a golden ball of light flew directly into his opened palm.

The sight of his own life force leaving his body momentarily stunned the French soldier, and Mr Mellark crushed the ball of light in his fist, preparing to smash the soldier out of all existence, when his own words came back to him.

_"Can a magician kill a man by magic?" Wellington had asked._

_"A magician might," he had replied, "but a gentleman never could."_

Could he really take this soldier's life, even in self-defence? To take a life… He knew that it would cost him everything that he was.

He had hesitated too long. The golden light in his hand drifted back to its owner, and he heard the soldier behind him take a deep, shuddering breath, as life was restored to him. Mr Mellark felt the barrel of the pistol once again pressed into the back of his head. He closed his eyes tightly and heard the echoing sound of the pistol firing.

"Are you alright, sir?" called Gale's voice, seemingly distant. Slowly Mr Mellark opened his eyes, and was momentarily surprised to see that the afterlife looked precisely like the landscape he had just left, until reality hit him. He turned around to see Gale stood before him, smoking pistol in hand, the body of the dead French soldier at his feet. "Are you alright?" he repeated.

"I'm alive," he choked out.

"I told you," said Gale, and there was a slightly manic glint in his eye, "I refused to lose another brother to these bastards." He spat at the ground, staring at the broken body of the soldier and at the open wound in the side of his head. "That was for Rory," he said with real venom.

"Thank you," said Mr Mellark, his voice shaking from a mixture of relief at his own survival and from the avoidance of having to kill another person. "Thank you."

Gale extended his arm out to Mr Mellark, and the gesture was gratefully accepted, as he pulled his master to his feet. "Wellington said yes. He is sending word round to our men not to be alarmed at what they see. So, whenever you feel ready."

He drew a still-shaking hand over his face and took a deep breath, before raising one hand to the sky and muttering in rapid Latin. The clouds parted and a ray of sunshine pierced the smoke and gloom of the battlefield. From all around them, the clear and ringing sound of trumpets could be heard. Suddenly, something could be seen riding along the sunbeam, as if it were a solid road, followed swiftly by three other similar shapes. They were riders, mounted on horses larger than any others ever seen.

One was white and was surrounded by a vile miasma. At its approach, the sound of flies could be heard, and wherever its feet touched, the surrounding grass withered and died. The rider's face could not be seen, wrapped as he was in the shrouds of the sick and dying.

The second was red. Wisps of smoke and flame billowed out from the horse's flared nostrils, and great sparks were created as the huge beast pawed the ground. The figure mounted on top wielded an enormous iron sword, rusted from the blood of the countless men that it had slain.

One was black, and despite its enormity, was also skeletally thin. Its eyes rolled in mad hunger, its maw dripping and salivating. The rider held aloft a delicate pair of silver scales.

And the final horse was pale, and mounted upon its back was a fearsome rider of terrible aspect: Death himself, silent and merciless.

The four horsemen sided themselves with the English cavalry, and with another clear ringing of trumpets, charged at full speed towards the French. In blind and abject terror, England's enemies turned and fled.

Those who could not escape cowered in fear as Mr Mellark summoned even more visions of great armoured angels, brandishing flaming swords and lances, which swooped down from on high. Napoleon had convinced his soldiers that God was on their side, and yet here was evidence to the contrary. The English were without mercy. No prisoners were taken. Those left alive soon took to fleeing to the trees to escape.

At long last, Wellington rode around the battlefield, his sword held high, silhouetted against the flames, the smoke, and the fading images of glowing angels. Exhausted from the exertion of summoning and maintaining the hellish visions, Mr Mellark descended from his vantage point to join the army, desperate to find word of his brother.

Before he was able to discover his brother's fate, he heard Wellington's commanding voice call out to him. "Merlin!" cried Wellington, and Mr Mellark reluctantly urged his horse forward to meet the general, "I mean to retrieve those cannon. I will not declare this as a true victory until they are returned to English hands!"

His futile protests that the type of magic required to locate them was long forgotten fell upon deaf ears. A small tent was set up to give Mr Mellark a space to try and conjure a vision in a silver bowl of water of the cannon. However, before attempting any spells to find the cannon, he quickly conjured a vision of Captain Rye Mellark.

His brother was alive—bloodied, exhausted, and covered in filth and grime, with an open cut above his left eye dripping blood down his face—but alive nonetheless. Mr Mellark nearly collapsed with relief, his own brush with death still far too close for comfort, and sought to now try and aid Wellington in his search for the missing cannon.

He began by dispelling the vision of Captain Mellark, who was riding amongst his men, comforting the wounded and taking note of the dead. He replaced his brother's image with that of the cannon. That part was easy, but the image gave no clue as to where precisely they might be, and the vision seemed almost to mock him, so tantalisingly close and yet so out of reach.

He tried widening the field of the vision to gain further clues, but the further he pulled away, the more the vision faded to obscurity.

Frustration got the better of him, and with an angry gesture, he knocked the silver dish of water to the ground. "There once was a time," he said, his head in his hands, "where a hundred spells of location existed. Even the most menial of magicians during the Golden Age knew them all. I would give anything for just one. Just one!"

Gale picked up the silver dish, and thrust it back into his master's hands. "So find another way," he said.

It was not just Gale growing impatient at Mr Mellark's lack of success. Every few minutes Wellington opened the curtain to the tent. "Where are my cannon, Merlin?" he would say, followed a few minutes later with, "I cannot wait forever! The French will regroup and retrieve them! We cannot allow that!"

Mr Mellark had discovered a spell a long time ago when first trying to discover how Heavensbee had revived Miss Everdeen. He had thought the spell repugnant, dark and twisted, and could not ever think of an occasion where it would possibly be useful. He and Mr Odair had discussed the spell, and both had shuddered at the idea of it ever possibly being used. A part of him thought about the dark path he had begun to tread earlier, when he nearly took the life of the French soldier. He shook the unbidden thoughts away.

"Gale," called out Mr Mellark, his mouth suddenly dry, "fetch me brandy. I need a drink."

With shaking hands he pulled off his coat and carefully laid it over the table. When Gale returned with his glass of brandy, he knocked the whole thing back in one go, and demanded another. He knew precisely where to find the particular spell he needed, and quickly retrieved Heavensbee's book from its protective bag.

Even as his eyes glanced over the spell, he felt himself tense at what would have to be done. After downing the second glass of brandy, he took a deep breath and exited the tent.

Orders were given to retrieve the bodies of at least ten dead Frenchmen. Mr Mellark put in a special request to make sure that the bodies were as intact as possible. Not that it would make a huge amount of difference to the magic, but it would certainly ease his own comfort.

If the soldiers carrying out these orders found their instructions strange or unusual, they kept their feelings hidden. After all, where Mr Mellark was concerned, they were used to strange and unusual by now.

Before the soldiers returned, Captain Mellark re-joined his brother's side. This did little to aid Mr Mellark's rising nerves; he had no wish for his brother to witness the dark feats he was about to perform. "That was some display out there, Peeta! You always did have quite the imagination. I confess, had we not heard what you were to attempt beforehand, I would have been most terrified to witness the arrival of the apocalypse!" he said, clapping a hand hard across Mr Mellark's shoulders.

Mr Mellark smiled tightly but did not answer his brother. Instead, he turned towards the ten dead bodies that had been lined up before him, and took a deep, calming breath.

Wellington and some of the other officers stood passively by as Mr Mellark rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt and requested a clean cloth. After consulting the relevant passage once more, he withdrew a sharp silver knife and drew it across his forearm. Working quickly so as not to lose too much blood, he dipped his fingers into the flowing red liquid, and smeared it across the eyelids and lips of each dead soldier. He then pulled the men's shirts open, drawing an 'x' in his own blood over the heart of each man.

He gratefully accepted the clean cloth that his brother then handed to him, and wrapped it tightly around his wound.

"Now what?" asked Wellington, who had been expecting something rather dramatic to occur.

Before Mr Mellark was able to respond, one of the bodies started to move. Slowly at first—his limbs jerking uncontrollably like a newborn—before he took a deep, rattling breath and began to spew forth a vile, guttural set of screams and noises. His sallow, sunken eyes seemed to be begging and pleading, his arms outstretched towards Mr Mellark. As the dead man continued to speak in his strange language, the other bodies began to awaken, until all ten were screaming.

"Good God," said Captain Mellark. "What kind of language is that?"

"I believe it is one of the dialects of Hell," said Mr Mellark, desperately fighting the nausea that arose within him.

"Really?" replied Wellington. "Impressive. They've only been dead a matter of hours. Clearly fast learners. But how are we to understand them?"

With a look that combined utmost disgust with sheer pity, Mr Mellark stepped forward to the first dead man and knelt before him, fighting the repulsion as the man's outstretched hands ran along his face and clutched desperately at his own hands. The magician spat into the dusty earth beside him, and picked up the resultant mud, forcing it into the mouth of the screaming corpse.

Immediately the guttural screams transformed into a much more understandable and earthly language.

"Nous avons fait ce que Dieu a demandé de nous! Pourquoi nous punit-il? Pourquoi? Sauvez-nous, s'il vous plaît! Ayez pitié de nous! Ne nous abandonnez pas comme le Seigneur l'a fait!"

"What is he saying?" asked Homes, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Mr Mellark took a deep breath before answering. "He wants to know why God has abandoned them when they were only doing as He wanted. And… he is begging for mercy." He was visibly shaken as he spat into the ground several times more, and placed the sods of earth into the mouths of the remaining wailing corpses.

"Well, it is a little late for that," shrugged Wellington. "Ask them about the cannon."

Mr Mellark cleared his throat, and spoke in a tremulous voice, "Écoutez-moi. Plusieurs pièces de canon ont été volées de nous, et nous devons les récupérer. Un de vous doit savoir où ils sont."

It took several pregnant moments for the corpses to answer. Whether this was through difficulty understanding due to some eccentricities in his accent or grammar, or because it took them longer to understand earthly languages now, Mr Mellark was unsure.

Eventually however, the corpses began to speak.

"Nous les avons cachés. Ils sont dans un village, à quelques lieues au nord de Salamanca. Si vous vous hâtez, vous pourriez les récupérer avant que Napoléon le fasse."

"They say that the cannon are hidden in a small village a little way north of here. They warn us to be hasty, lest Napoleon retrieve them first."

"Where? What village?"

"Où est ce village? Il me faut un nom!"

"Castellanos De Villiquera."

As soon as the words left the corpses' lips, Wellington flew into action, ordering the fastest riders out first to secure the cannon, while other artillery experts marched on foot as quickly as possible. Within a half a day, the cannon were back in English hands, and Wellington declared the battle at Salamanca a victory at last.

Mr Mellark, however, was in no mood to join the festivities. He had assumed that the spell used to awaken the dead would wear off, and the corpses would simply go back to sleep. This did not seem to be the case however. For several days the walking dead followed Mr Mellark; they sat beside him as he ate, they lovingly stroked his face as he tried to sleep, and they seemed impervious to the threats of physical violence from Gale and the other soldiers if they refused to leave the magician alone. Clearly whatever they had encountered in Hell was far worse than any punishment that could meted out by earthly means.

At each and every opportunity, the dead soldiers would beg in their rasping voices, "Magicien, s'il vous plaît! Montrez votre bienveillance! Rendez-nous à la vie et ne nous renvoyez pas en enfer! Nous porterons volontiers allégeance envers vous, mais s'il vous plaît, ne nous renvoyez pas là-bas."

But despite their pleas for mercy, there was nothing that Mr Mellark could do for them. He had no wish to send them back to Hell, even if they were the enemy. No man deserved their eternal fate. And yet he could not restore them to their former lives either. He began to refuse food, was no longer able to sleep, and the precious few moments of rest that he was able to snatch were disturbed by terrifying dreams of the walking dead.

Eventually, in order to preserve the sanity of his magician, Wellington ordered the bodies to be destroyed by fire. Mr Mellark could not watch, and vomited several times until his stomach was empty as their begging cries reached his ears. Not that the fire consuming them caused them grief; it was the hellish inferno they were being condemned to return to.

Still, even as the sound of their torment filled him, he prayed that word of his ghastly deeds would not reach the ears of Mr Heavensbee. His tutor, safe as he was in his comfortable London home, would surely never understand—nor forgive—what he had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (and once again, huge thanks to lurkinginthecorner for help with this!) –
> 
> "Vous êtes le magicien, je me trompe?" – You are the magician, am I right?
> 
> "Alors saluez Lucifer pour moi." – Then say hello to Lucifer for me.
> 
> "Nous avons fait ce que Dieu a demandé de nous! Pourquoi nous punit-il? Pourquoi? Sauvez-nous, s'il vous plaît! Ayez pitié de nous! Ne nous abandonnez pas comme le Seigneur l'a fait!" – We did what God asked of us! Why is he punishing us? Why? Save us, please! Have mercy! Don't abandon us like the Lord has!"
> 
> Écoutez-moi. Plusieurs pièces de canon ont été volées de nous, et nous devons les récupérer. Un de vous doit savoir où ils sont - Listen to me. Several pieces of cannon were stolen from us, and we need them back. One of you must know where they are (slight mis-translation, as Peeta is English so would probably make a couple of mistakes)
> 
> Nous les avons cachés. Ils sont dans un village, à quelques lieues au nord de Salamanca. Si vous vous hâtez, vous pourriez les récupérer avant que Napoléon le fasse." - We hid them. They are in a village, a few leagues north of Salamanca. If you hurry you may retrieve them before Napoleon does
> 
> Où est ce village? Il me faut un nom – Where is this village? I need a name!
> 
> "Magicien, s'il vous plaît! Montrez votre bienveillance! Rendez-nous à la vie et ne nous renvoyez pas en enfer! Nous porterons volontiers allégeance envers vous, mais s'il vous plaît, ne nous renvoyez pas là-bas." - "Magician, please! Show your benevolence! Restore us to life and do not send us back to hell! We will gladly swear allegiance to you, but please do not send us back there"


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Court for beta work and huge thanks and kudos to BaronnessKika for the incredibly timely support and encouragement :)

Following the battle at Salamanca, Wellington's demands on his magician became more and more extravagant. He was already used to demanding the impossible from his soldiers, and expected nothing less from Mr Mellark.

Any observer would have surely noticed a definite change within Mr Mellark. When he first had arrived in Portugal, Mr Mellark had been witty and charming. He had been humble about the kinds of magic he could perform, and had been unwilling to take too many risks. But since the battle at Salamanca, Wellington had expected results there and then, without much thought to ethics and morals. Mr Mellark had found that protest was ineffectual. Useless, even. Slowly, he had begun to oblige without too much argument, although his friends within the army still noticed that certain forms of magic would cause Mr Mellark to shake with the effort of keeping his feelings hidden, or would cause a definite grey pallor to tinge his skin.

By suppressing his own feelings of disgust and repulsion, Mr Mellark had rediscovered magic that had been lost for many hundreds of years. But he was fearful that in doing so, he was losing a part of himself in the process. His waking fears were confirmed by his night-time visits to Panem; Miss Everdeen conveyed to him the rather disturbing news that the gentleman with snow-white hair was delighted with the types of magic that he, Mr Mellark, was performing. Indeed, the gentleman was convinced that very soon Mr Mellark would destroy himself with his experiments. And so a vicious cycle began. Mr Mellark's visitations to Panem compounded his waking fears, and an echo of those fears stayed with him during the day.

At long last, on the eleventh of April 1814 Napoleon was forced to abdicate by his allies, and was exiled to the island of Elba. As he received the news, Mr Mellark was seen to collapse into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. As he allowed the news that he would be returning to England at long last to penetrate his mind, he was fearful that word of his dark magic would have already preceded him, and that he would be shunned. He was equally fearful of having to return to his dull life, studying under Heavensbee, knowing full well that he, Mr Mellark, was now as experienced, if not more so, than his so-called master.

After several days of travelling, Mr Mellark returned home to his rooms in Soho Square. In his absence, a thick layer of dust had settled over everything, and the English cold had permeated every beam, wall, and floorboard. A heavy spring shower fell in the square outside, while inside Gale struggled to light a fire in the damp hearth, eventually giving up and allowing Mr Mellark to light a magical fire. This gave off a slightly eerie, silvery light that made the room look even colder, but gave off a good heat, nonetheless. By now, the two men were used to the blazing Portuguese sunshine, and both shivered and shook as they huddled before the fire, soaking up as much warmth as possible until exhaustion overtook them both.

Mr Mellark awoke the following morning, wrapped in a blanket, in an armchair by the fire, which still gave off a strange, otherworldly light. In his confused and tired state, he gazed into the depths of the flames, and for a split second swore that he could see a face: a rather distinguished-looking gentleman with snow-white hair. But he blinked the sleep away, and the face was gone. A bizarre trick of the light, nothing more. Still, the idea that he was being watched made him terribly nervous, and somehow brought back memories of some of the darker magics he had indulged in. He felt as though he were surrounded by an army of resurrected bodies, all clawing at him, vying for his attention. "Not real," he whispered to himself, as he screwed his eyes tightly shut against the terrible vision. "Not real." Very slowly, Mr Mellark opened his eyes once more. He was home. He was safe.

Gale was nowhere to be seen, presumably already awake and attending to his duties, and Mr Mellark yawned widely and stretched his limbs. There was once a time when, if he had not slept in his bed, he would have awoken in a great deal of discomfort and in a state of distemper, but after spending the last couple of years sleeping on whichever hard surface the army could provide, a night in an armchair was a decided luxury.

Mr Mellark's stomach growled loudly, and at that precise moment, Gale entered the room, carrying a tray laden with a pot of hot chocolate, several bread rolls, a large pat of butter, and a dish filled to the brim with gooseberry jam.

"I could easily weep at the sight of such good fare!" exclaimed Mr Mellark, reaching directly for the bread and butter, and gorging himself on proper English food for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Mr Mellark would have been entirely content to do nothing but eat and sleep all day, but at a little before midday, the front door bell announced that he already had visitors. His initial displeasure at being disturbed quickly evaporated when the charming smile of Mr Odair lit up the room in a far warmer way than his magical fire had done.

After embracing his old friend, and instructing Gale to prepare tea for the two gentlemen, Mr Mellark seemed happy to do little more than to sit and listen to Mr Odair speak.

"You are somewhat thinner than I recall," said Mr Odair as he appraised his dear friend. "And a good deal browner also. I suppose the English weather will help with the latter. As to the former, I recommend a diet of sweet things. Plenty of hot chocolate, sugary tea, and cakes should help."

"Nothing should please me more than to visit a good coffee-house where I might indulge in more decent English food. But more than that, I beg you, quench my thirst for knowledge of my friends. How are you, my dear Finnick? And how is the beautiful Miss Cresta?"

Mr Odair took a deep breath and sighed heavily. "I'm afraid there is no Miss Cresta."

"Oh," replied Mr Mellark, his heart sinking desperately. "I am so terribly sorry. I have seen far too much loss, but to lose one so young and beautiful… I am so sorry."

But Mr Odair did not appear to share Mr Mellark's mournful feelings. A sly smile spread across his face, as if he held a secret that he could no longer contain. "She is now known as Mrs Odair."

It took a few moments for understanding to sink in, and Mr Mellark's eyebrows raised in excitement. "My dear friend! Tea will not suffice at a time such as this! Gale, fetch us champagne and cigars! This is cause for celebration indeed!"

"I am just sorry that you were unable to be there," grinned Mr Odair as he finally extricated himself from Mr Mellark's hearty embrace.

"Then prepare yourself to relive the entire ceremony now for my benefit," replied Mr Mellark.

He sat back in his armchair, slowly and contentedly sipping at champagne, as Mr Odair described the perfect spring morning from the previous year, how the cherry blossom had settled in Miss Cresta's hair, the gentle breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers, and the sight of a hundred white doves being released as they left the church.

"It sounds utterly idyllic," said Mr Mellark.

"It most certainly was. And, well, I find that the marriage itself is an interesting position to be in."

The comment jarred Mr Mellark from his reverie, as he had been contemplating trying to draw the scene from his imagination as a belated wedding gift to the pair. "An _interesting_ position. Strange choice of words."

"Well," continued Mr Odair, "as you are aware, I have come from nothing, and count my blessings in my current fortune daily. I never expected that I would move in such high circles as I do now, and yet I believe the servants still view me more as one of their own. People like to gossip with their servants, never fully realising that servants like to gossip with each other. And as such, I have been privy to one or two rather interesting titbits."

"Oh?" said Mr Mellark.

"Be wary of the Prime Minister."

"Coin?"

Mr Odair nodded curtly. "His popularity has been waning, and with the upcoming elections, I believe he wishes to ride on the back of your own recent successes. But there is more than that. I genuinely believe that he sees the defeat of Napoleon as an opportunity to take his place."

Mr Mellark shifted his weight forward in his seat, and carefully set his glass of champagne to one side. "The last thing Europe needs is another dictator, especially when we have spent so many years and so very many lives trying to dethrone this one."

"My thoughts entirely," agreed Mr Odair. "Which is why it is imperative that you are not seen to side with him. Heavensbee too."

Mr Mellark moved even closer to the edge of his seat. The mention of Heavensbee brought two more important queries to the forefront of his mind. "The book auction!" he exclaimed. "Did you win me anything?"

Mr Odair shook his head a little sadly, and Mr Mellark felt himself sag with disappointment. "Your tutor outbid me at every turn. He spent over two thousand, five hundred guineas on a single book. Two thousand five hundred! It was an unheard of sum for a single book. But it was said to contain accounts written by Martin Pale himself!"

Mr Mellark let out a low whistle. An account written by Martin Pale, considered by many to be the last of the Golden Age magicians... certainly the last English magician to have travelled into Faery... what would he give for a glance at such a work? But it could almost be guaranteed that the book was now sequestered away at Northolt Abbey, along with countless other works, deemed too dangerous for his eyes.

He felt a stab of annoyance at the world. Look at all he had achieved in Europe! And yet a _book_ was too much for him to handle?

"I am sorry," Mr Odair's voice cut into his thoughts. "I found his behaviour, particularly considering that you were away fighting for king and country, deplorable."

Mr Mellark sighed, suddenly feeling his annoyance ebb away in the face of his friend's indignation. "It wasn't deplorable. He behaved as any gentleman at auction would. Thank you for trying."

The front door bell rang once more, and Gale left his position to answer the summons.

There was one remaining question that Mr Mellark had to ask, in regards to Miss Everdeen. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he became aware of another presence in the room.

Breaking all forms of protocol, as was his want, Haymitch Abernathy had entered the room unannounced, followed shortly after by Gale, looking both angry at the uninvited visitor, and apologetic towards his master.

"It's good to see you back in one piece, Mr Mellark," said Haymitch, "and looking so well at that. Mr Heavensbee has requested your presence at your earliest convenience."

Taken aback by the man's sudden presence and his unorthodox request, Mr Mellark sputtered over his words. "I'm busy," he said at last, indicating Mr Odair.

"I can wait," replied Haymitch, helping himself to a seat and watching the gentlemen closely. "Please, don't mind me."

Mr Mellark turned to Mr Odair and spoke in an exasperated voice. "Have servants always been this way, or have they become petulant in my absence?"

Haymitch merely smiled a crooked smile in response.

\----------------------------

It had not taken long for Haymitch's presence to spur Mr Mellark into action. Haymitch sat at a desk at the edge of the room and withdrew his tattered deck of tarot cards, silently dealing hand after hand until Mr Mellark could no longer bear to remain still. The cards told him the same thing over and over: duplicity, trials, self-sacrifice, fatality. If only he could get more from them than just a general overview...

"All right, you rogue," said the magician at long last, after Haymitch had dealt his fifteenth hand and hissed silently at the results, "I can take no more of this! Take me to your leader, if you must!" He then turned to Mr Odair and said, ""Perhaps you would care to join me for a game of billiards at the Hob Club this Wednesday evening?" He shot a glare towards Haymitch, then spoke in a pointed and deliberate voice. "We are far less likely to have to cater to interruptions there. Come on then, Haymitch."

Haymitch dipped his head in response and took the lead in exiting the Soho apartment. He stepped outside into the pouring rain and turned to see Mr Mellark looking towards the sky with dismay, before reaching for an umbrella, and huddling underneath it. He could not help but exchange a slight smirk with Mr Odair, who similarly showed no aversion to the adverse weather.

After bidding adieu to Mr Odair, the two men walked together in silence for a while, until Mr Mellark finally spoke. "Is your master aware of how much you use those cards? I cannot imagine he would approve."

"He knows I have them, and you are quite right. He most certainly doesn't approve. And you, sir? What is your take on them?"

Mr Mellark shrugged. "I have never found much use for them."

"I suppose not," answered Haymitch. "I imagine you simply ask the sky and..." He made a gesture, as if to pluck the answer out of the air.

"Not quite," laughed Mr Mellark. "I just prefer not to know too much about my future. Although, I must confess myself intrigued. When you were busy trying to disrupt my social life—"

"Succeeding in disrupting it," interrupted Haymitch.

"Yes, thank you. Anyway, I could not help but notice the concern on your face at the results. What did they say?"

For a moment, Haymitch was unsure whether or not to tell the young magician. His experiences with Heavensbee had left him particularly guarded when it came to revealing what the cards told him. But a look at Mr Mellark's countenance assuaged his feelings. "Nothing particularly joyful," he admitted. "They kept telling me of a person's duplicity, although I can't tell whose, and of someone's particularly difficult trials, resulting in a death. But again, as to who they refer, I have no way of knowing."

"Well, now I am even more intrigued!" said Mr Mellark. "Perhaps I might be of assistance?"

"But you don't wish to know too much about yourself. What if the cards relate to you?"

"True," considered Mr Mellark, "but if death is in my near future, I should like to know how to avoid it, if possible. Or if you would permit me, I could read your fortunes? One last act of rebellion before I am forced to play the part of the good pupil once again?"

Haymitch grinned widely. "Well, sir, I happen to know of a very disreputable alehouse not far from here where I might allow you to buy me a glass or two of spiced wine whilst you take a look at the cards."

A sparkle of mischief lit up Mr Mellark's eye, and he laughed as he said, "Then, by all means, lead the way."

The Coalminer was a thoroughly unpleasant place by anyone's standards, always filled with crooks and malcontents, and yet despite these rather large setbacks, some of the best spiced wine in London could be found within its four rather damp and mould-infested walls. Haymitch could barely see Mr Mellark through the thick fog of tobacco smoke, but even taking this into account, his fine clothes and gentlemanly manner saw him sticking out like a sore thumb. Haymitch vowed to keep his eyes on at least two scoundrels who were clearly eyeing up Mr Mellark as a potential target to rob.

As soon as Mr Mellark returned with two pewter tankards full of hot spiced red wine, Haymitch withdrew his deck of cards and passed them to Mr Mellark without another word. The magician took them up without preamble and shuffled them thoroughly, placing a card face up on the table before him.

_The King of Sceptres_ : there could be no queries as to who that represented. The King was a country gentleman, who did everything deliberately, without hastiness. He was thoroughly well educated, and could seem severe, but was naturally good.

Mr Mellark clearly came to the same conclusion, for he nodded and smiled his particular half-smile, before reaching for the next card. _The King of Cups_. He represented a fair man, full of goodness and generosity, but one who had the gift of the ability to deceive on his side. Haymitch had his suspicions as to who this card represented, and he raised an eyebrow at Mr Mellark, talking a slow and deliberate swig of his wine. If Mr Mellark read that card the same way, he did not show it, and instead moved straight on to the next card.

_The Hanged Man_. This was one of the cards that turned up again and again when Haymitch was reading them. Self-sacrifice. Haymitch could not help but notice the slightly furrowed brow of the magician, who turned over the next card.

_The Hermit_. The card could have several meanings: perhaps it represented a need for caution and deliberation? Or there was the chance that it represented a man who had withdrawn from society, but also one who held the tools required to complete a great quest. Haymitch was certain Mr Mellark would be able to read them once the spread was complete.

He turned over the next card and was met with _The Devil_ , another one of the cards that Haymitch had seen over and over again that day. This was the card that represented fatality, but whether it showed the death of a good and virtuous ally, or that of a heinous foe, he could not tell.

The next card was _The Emperor_ , a man who could create structure from chaos. Haymitch searched his mind as to who this could represent, but Mr Mellark seemed more concerned with the card itself.

"This is an unusual design," he said, picking the card up and examining it closer. "I cannot say I have ever seen a version of _The Emperor_ looking quite so young."

Whatever Haymitch had been expecting the magician to say, that was not it. He reached out and took the card from Mr Mellark and examined it closer. Instead of the regal-looking emperor with flowing white hair that he had been expecting, the card showed a young man with long black hair.

"This is not one of my cards," said Haymitch, placing it back on the table. "What trickery is this?"

"Nothing of my doing, I assure you," said Mr Mellark, turning over the next card.

_The Emperor_. This version looked even younger, barely out of his teenage years.

With a furrowed brow, the magician turned over the next card. _The Emperor_. The throne seating the young Emperor was no longer golden and opulent; instead it looked to be hewn out of the ground itself.

He turned over the next card. _The Emperor_. The blue sky behind the throne was now black with ravens.

Mr Mellark turned over the rest of the cards, spreading them out across the table. Every single one now showed _The Emperor_ , each one wilder and more fairy-like than the last.

The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment, before Haymitch reached out and collected his now obsolete deck of cards. Haymitch's heart was pounding hard; it looked as though the Raven King himself had attempted to contact them. But as to what purpose, Haymitch could not even begin to guess. "I think it probably best that we not mention this to Mr Heavensbee, wouldn't you agree?" When the magician didn't answer but remained looking pensive, Haymitch said, "Well, at any rate, sir, I'm glad you are back. Even if for no other reason than it will displace Mr Heavensbee's hangers-on."

"His hangers-on?" repeated Mr Mellark, instantly snapping out of his reverie.

"He hasn't been able to shake himself free of those two flatterers, Mr Crane and Mr Cato. Without you to turn to for advice he has been consistently turning to them instead, and it may not be my place to say, but I trust neither of them."

"I see," said Mr Mellark, a slight frown creasing his brow once more. For a moment, he appeared lost in thought, and shuddered slightly, as if some terrible memory or experience were vying for his attention. With what appeared to be a concentrated effort, Mr Mellark lifted his head and smiled. "Then let us go and displace these usurpers without further ado."

"And the cards?" prompted Haymitch.

"As you said, it is best not to discuss this with Mr Heavensbee." The young magician waved his hand dismissively. "After all, he has always said what an imprecise branch of magic fortune telling is. He would not care to be troubled by such a folly."

As Mr Mellark stood up to leave, Haymitch observed him closely. Whatever they had just experienced, it was not due to fortune telling being 'an imprecise branch of magic.' And it was apparent from Mr Mellark's grey pallor that he did not believe those words either.

\----------------------

The last place Mr Mellark wished to be was sat in Mr Heavensbee's library recounting false tales of the magic he had used in Portugal and Spain. Rumours had indeed reached Heavensbee's ears of his young apprentice using Dark magic whilst abroad, but Heavensbee had dismissed these claims without another word. As a result, Mr Mellark was forced to invent some stories of his heroics, while completely ignoring other instances of magic.

Heavensbee was most interested in certain lost spells of location that, through much trial and error, Mr Mellark had rediscovered whilst abroad. These were spells that Mr Mellark could now do blindfolded, and thus he performed them without difficulty, mostly ignoring the praise being heaped upon him by his tutor, giving him time to think about the strange portents seen in Haymitch's cards.

Was it a warning, perhaps? Heavensbee certainly hadn't changed his stance on fairies, nor of the King. As soon as Heavensbee had greeted Mr Mellark as an old friend, Mr Mellark had asked the question that had plagued him the most: What of Miss Everdeen? Was he correct? Was her melancholy the result of unfavourable interest from a fairy?

Mr Crane and Mr Cato both looked rather eager for a response, and Heavensbee had not divulged any information in front of either man, preferring to talk to Mr Mellark once the two magicians were alone, ensconced in Heavensbee's library.

"I am sorry to say that you were incorrect," Heavensbee had said almost as soon as the door clicked shut behind him.

Mr Mellark had felt his heart sink desperately. He had been so certain that he would return to find Miss Everdeen as the lively young woman he had heard so much about. "You are certain? She displays so many symptoms that are synchronous to one who has been placed under a fairy spell."

"At first I thought that perhaps you may have been correct. I performed Lanchester's Displacement, and nothing happened."

This was dire news indeed. Fairies could stop themselves from being seen if they wished to remain anonymous, but Lanchester's Displacement was supposed to produce an eerie shimmer if a fairy was present. Mr Mellark had spoken as soon as the words had left his tutor's mouth. "Are you certain the spell worked? Perhaps the fairy was not present at that moment."

"Those were my initial thoughts also. I returned and performed the spell on more than one occasion. There was nothing."

"Perhaps you would teach me the spell? I shall be visiting Mr Everdeen at my earliest opportunity. It could not hurt to try again."

But Heavensbee had given his usual answer. The spell was very difficult and dangerous to master, and the book containing the spell was, of course, in Northolt Abbey. Mr Mellark barely listened as Heavensbee spoke about the impossibilities of his learning the spell. He began to wonder if Heavensbee had even visited Miss Everdeen at all. But why would he lie? Miss Everdeen's entire life was one of his greatest triumphs, and it was an embarrassment to modern magic that she had fallen so ill since her resurrection.

Heavensbee had then brought the subject back around to Mr Mellark's successes in the war, and had eventually found a new text for him to study. Mr Mellark sighed as he looked down at the work in his hands: A Fraudulent Royalby Addison Kirby. Yet another diatribe against the Raven King, one that suggested that his power had not come from fairies after all. The book suggested that he was a young Viking prince, blessed with unusual good looks, which gave rise to the rumours of him being raised by fairies. But he was a man, mortal like any other, who ruled his Kingdom of North England not with magic, but with brutality and violence.

For a split second, a vague memory seemed to surface, but as soon as Mr Mellark tried to grasp hold of it, it began to slip away. But the memory left an imprint, rather like a footstep in the sand. It gave him the impression of decaying castles, of endless dancing, and of a glimpse of the kind of brutality that Mr Kirby described in his book. Only far, far worse.

And so Haymitch's cards did indeed feel like a warning to Mr Mellark. _Ignore the possibility of fairies at your peril._

\----------------------------

The room around Miss Everdeen swam sickeningly, but this was nothing new. This had been her life now for as long as she could remember. Panem fought with England for dominance, and she inhabited both lands at once. But with every ounce of her will, she focused on the real world of England, of her London home, of her father and sister. Most of all, she focused on the knowledge that Mr Mellark had returned.

Her father had summoned Mr Mellark to give a first-hand report on the war, with special emphasis on how magic had been used to shape Europe. As Foreign Minister, Mr Everdeen had already received several complaints from foreign dignitaries that Mr Mellark had changed the Portuguese and Spanish countryside. Forests had been moved, rivers had been re-routed, mountains had been shrunk to mere hills... and these people wanted their countryside returned to normal. Mr Everdeen had reminded them that it was thanks to these changes that they no longer lived under the threat of a dictatorship, but that had not appeased them. Miss Everdeen smiled to herself as she thought about how Mr Mellark had received this news when she had delivered it to him in Panem. He had fretted and worried about the terrible inconvenience he had caused others, and she had smoothed his hair and kissed his brow, and he had soon forgotten about anything other than her.

Very soon she would see him in the real world. His night-time visits over the past couple of years had kept her sane, and her feelings for him ran deeply. And it seemed that his feelings for her were reciprocated. It most certainly was a unique and complicated situation. She prayed every day that he would just remember when he woke up, so that he could try and break the curse.

A knock at the front door caught her attention, and she looked up to see Cinna walking down the hallway to answer the summons. She could see the two worlds that he occupied, in a similar fashion to herself. She could clearly see the thin gold diadem he wore in Panem, and she shuddered as she watched the gentleman with snow-white hair accompany him to the front door. After just a few seconds, her heart began to pound even harder, as she could hear Mr Mellark's voice.

Cinna walked back past once more, leading Mr Mellark down the hall towards the Green Drawing Room, where her father was waiting to meet with the magician, and Miss Everdeen could not help but gasp slightly at the sight of Mr Mellark in England once again.

The delicate sound of her inhalation caught Mr Mellark's attention, and he looked up towards her. She caught his gaze, and as his eyes widened at the sight of her, she tried to stand, to rush towards him, but felt a strong pair of arms hold her back: the gentleman with snow-white hair laughed maliciously in her ear.

"Miss Everdeen," he exclaimed, entering the drawing room and bowing his head towards her, a shy smile uplifting the corners of his mouth. "How has life treated you? Well, I hope?"

"Life remains the same as ever," she said. "It is still one endless, dreary day, devoid of all pleasures." Beside her, the gentleman made an irritated noise and stepped closer towards her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, shivering as the gentleman's long, icy cold fingers drew a line down her neck.

Mr Mellark looked terribly crestfallen. "I am sorry to hear that, Miss Everdeen. I had hoped that in my absence, perhaps your condition might have improved." He paused for a moment, clearly dealing with some kind of internal struggle, before he spoke once again. "I had a notion of what could have been causing your melancholy, and sent instructions to Mr Heavensbee to look into it. Did he visit you at all whilst I was away?"

The gentleman moved even closer to her and placed his hand firmly over her mouth. She had to be careful about revealing too much in front of the gentleman, but at the same time she had to at least try and communicate to Mr Mellark. "Yes!" she screamed through the gentleman's fingers. "Yes, he did! He came to me, he told my father about your ideas, then he stood before me muttering some nonsense words and claimed he had done magic which proved that your hypothesis was incorrect, but it's true! It is all true! You were right, and Heavensbee is a fraud. Help me, please, for the love of God, help me!"

But although she could hear those words, and she could see from the look on Cinna's face that he could hear them too, she could also hear another set of words coming from her, coming from the version of her that sat meekly and demurely in England. They told a tale of a woman who owned a goose that accidentally swallowed a magic ring, and caused all kinds of havoc before the goose was eventually killed by a she-wolf who happened to be an enchantress in disguise. The ring passed to her, and the enchantress vanished, but not before setting to rights all the strange magic the goose had caused.

Hatred such as she had never known rose up in her. Hatred for the evil being that silenced her, and hate for the man who had bargained her life for his own success.

Mr Mellark smiled sympathetically, a slight up-turn of his lips that did not match the sadness in his azure eyes. "I will help you overcome this melancholy, Miss Everdeen. If it is the last thing I do." He bowed his head towards her before speaking once again. "Your father is expecting me, Miss Everdeen. I must not keep him waiting."

He swept from the room, leaving her alone with the gentleman with snow-white hair. His hated voice whispered softly in her ear, "If he ever solves this little conundrum, it will indeed be the last thing he ever does."

Her heart leapt into her throat. Mr Mellark could not possibly know how much danger he was currently in, and the thought of losing him to this…this monster, was too much to bear. She swore she would protect him by any means. Even if it meant her own sacrifice.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful betas, Court81981 and Pookieh, and to my wonderful pre-readers, Baronesskika, Sponsormusings and Titania522. All of you ladies are fabulous!

Miss Everdeen pulled the string of the bow taut, her eyes focused on the target. She pictured the gentleman with snow-white hair, imagined that the bulls-eye was his black heart, and let the arrow fly. It buried itself in the very centre of the target, the flight's feathers quivering very slightly in the breeze, and Miss Everdeen allowed herself a satisfied smile.

This was one activity that she never would have been allowed to do back home in England, and was something she felt far more drawn to than sewing or sketching—standard activities for ladies of her age and social standing. This was something that came to her naturally, that she had excelled at from her very first attempt. Lucky for her too; she recalled with perfect clarity the terrible and brutal deaths meted out to those English captives who had shown no ability to hunt or fight. With each bulls-eye she struck, she swore that one day she would use her ability to destroy the gentleman with snow-white hair.

The sound of a familiar heavy footfall caught her attention, and she smiled to herself as she released another arrow. Mr Mellark held the power of the world within his hands, but he could never find a way to disguise his blatant tread from her. The flickering flames of her dress grew warmer in tone, and she turned on the spot to meet him.

"I had hoped that you would come tonight," she said by way of a greeting, as she dropped the bow to the floor.

"And why is that?" he asked, wasting no time enveloping her within his strong arms.

"I hope that you will come every night," she answered, plucking a feather from the hood of his disguise. She gently stroked it down the side of his face, speaking once more as she did so. "You know that, kind sir."

"I do," said Mr Mellark, his eyes falling closed. He rested his forehead against hers and held her even tighter. "And I wish that I could."

His sudden kiss took her by surprise, but she soon melted into him, resting one hand against his chest and bringing the other behind his head so that she could twist his curls around her fingers. He tasted vaguely of sugar and cooked flour and cinnamon, and she made a mental note to herself: when he rescued her, and brought her back to the real world, she would always make sure to have cinnamon spiced cake available for him, every day.

The idea made her smile against his lips, and in response he deepened the kiss even further. As his tongue pressed into hers, she felt a stirring that began deep within her belly. It was a hunger unlike any other, and it could only be satiated with Mr Mellark's touch. But the more she kissed him, the greater that hunger became. He became her whole world: nothing mattered, not even her own imprisonment, because he was there with her.

Her hand dropped lower to rest on his hip, and he snaked his arm tighter around her waist, pulling her even closer. She gasped as she felt something hard pressing into her abdomen, and Mr Mellark immediately relinquished his hold on her.

"I am sorry," he said. Colour had flooded his cheeks and he was utterly breathless. "Forgive me."

Miss Everdeen was silent for a moment. Her sister had quite a collection of erotic novels that she kept hidden from their father, and Miss Everdeen had glanced over enough of them to know that Mr Mellark was aroused. She had noticed his arousal on many other occasions, but he had always tried to subtly hide it from her. This was the first time he had been quite so bold. And she found the notion that she could excite him so much utterly thrilling.

"Do not be sorry," she said soothingly.

"I…I did not mean to take advantage," he stammered.

"You did not," she said, stepping closer towards him. "I assure you." She could not help her eyes from drifting towards the noticeable bulge in his trousers, and she quickly licked her suddenly dry lips, and then reached out to stroke the side of his face.

His eyes drifted closed, and he leant further into her touch. Very slowly, Miss Everdeen sunk to the ground, and Mr Mellark followed immediately after. "I hope you understand how deeply my feelings for you run," he said. His eyes were still closed, and he sighed as Miss Everdeen continued to stroke his face. "And not just… physically." He took her hand in his own then placed it over his heart. "It pains me here….that I cannot find a way to help you. That I know I shall wake up soon and remember none of this. Most of all, it pains me that…" He shook his head and sighed once more, and a look of disgust and self-pity marred his handsome features. "It pains me that I cannot bring myself to talk to you properly in my waking hours. Away from here, I am terrified that you would simply reject me. I am terrified that your father would feel I am taking advantage of an ill and delicate young woman. I am a coward, Miss Everdeen. And I fear that, if only I could overcome my cowardice, I could help you sooner. What if my inaction is hindering you? If I told you of my feelings, allowed us to grow closer in the real world, would I begin to remember my time here?"

Tears had formed in his eyes, and Miss Everdeen put a stop to his self-deprecation in the only way she could think of: she pressed her lips firmly into his, silencing him immediately. The kiss was wet and salty from his tears, and she could still feel his hitched breathing from his distress. She rested her hand against his chest as she continued to kiss him, until slowly he began to relax.

It was not long before she began to feel the hunger again, even stronger than before, and she pushed against his chest so that he was lying back in the grass. As she gently grazed her teeth along his bottom lip, causing him to moan in approval, her eyes fell shut and her mind drifted back to earlier, and to the sight of his arousal. She had to know if she still had the same effect on him. Very slowly, so as not to alarm him, she edged her hand lower and lower. She could feel his muscles tensing under her touch, but he made no move to stop her.

Miss Everdeen half opened her eyes to watch his reaction as she slid her hand even lower. As she ran her hand over the pronounced bulge, Mr Mellark's eyes flew open and he gasped as he broke away from her kiss. Feeling emboldened by his reaction, she began to gently stroke him, and his eyes fell closed once more as he began to thrust his hips upwards to match her actions. But barely a few seconds later he closed his hand around her wrist, ceasing her ministrations, and said in a voice that was husky with desire, "Stop. Please, stop."

She looked at him questioningly, as his words did not match his tone. "Did I do something incorrectly?" she asked him.

"No," he said, slightly breathless as he sat up. "But… I do not wish to change you in any way. I mean, you are so… pure. I want you to stay that way."

"Pure?" she repeated.

"Absolutely. Pure. And perfect."

"I do not think I am perfect," said Miss Everdeen. "I would imagine the perfect woman is not half-trapped in another world."

"Oh, she most certainly is. It is the man trying to save her who is imperfect. But he hopes to rectify that one day."

He smiled at her, a warm gesture with just a hint of shyness that caused a swooping sensation in the pit of her stomach. At that moment, a loud fanfare rang out across the grounds, and in an instant Miss Everdeen's happiness had evaporated.

"You must go," she said urgently, looking towards the decaying castle. "He is coming to inspect our skills. Keep thinking of me."

He bowed his head towards her, and placed a swift kiss on the back of her hand before looking furtively in the direction of the castle. It was his exit from Panem. Miss Everdeen tried not to think of what the gentleman with snow-white hair would do to Mr Mellark were he to be found here.

Mr Mellark briefly turned back towards her, worry lines creasing his forehead. "Miss Everdeen," he said. "I have to tell you that I…" He paused, clearly struggling with what he wanted to say. With a little shake of his head, he added, "Never mind. Perhaps I am as much of a coward here as I am in England. Stay safe."

She watched him retreat to the castle, using crumbling statues and dying trees as cover, and she could not help but wonder precisely what Mr Mellark had been trying to say.

\------------------------

It took Cinna a few moments for the nausea of abruptly finding himself in a random location to pass. He was not sure he would ever get used to it. Taking a deep breath, he quickly took stock of his current situation. A huge yellow sun beat down over a vast and equally yellow landscape, and an oppressive heat caused Cinna to sweat. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his coat, as the gentleman began to speak.

"This is where your mother lived, before she was taken."

Cinna quickly turned around on the spot. Far from being located in a featureless desert, a small village spread out before them; clay-daubed huts stood beside tall trees that provided shade from the relentless heat. A goat was tethered by one of the trees, nibbling at the long, dry grasses that grew in patches. Naked children sang and played in the shade, while a lithe, topless woman, her neck adorned with beads and charms, carried a pail of water on her head. She set it down before the children, who squealed with delight, cupping their tiny hands and drinking.

Cinna turned away from the scene, a mix of shame at seeing the naked flesh of the unknown woman, coupled with an infinite sense of loss. This carefree existence should have been his. This was his birth-right. His true home.

"I thought you would like to see it. There is an item here I require, and thought it only fitting to bring you with me."

Cinna felt a sudden panic. When there was an item the gentleman needed, it usually resulted in death. These people had already seen enough suffering, with the loss of their families being taken from them. They did not need to witness any more death. His eyes were drawn back to the children, playing and laughing. "Please, sir," begged Cinna, "whatever it is that you need, allow these people to live. They have done no harm or injury to either of us."

The gentleman laughed. "Ah, Cinna," he said, "you are a good man. I shall harm no one." He disappeared inside one of the huts and re-emerged a few moments later, clutching what appeared to be a roughly carved wooden man, which he secreted in an inner coat pocket.

Without further explanation, the gentleman snapped his fingers, and Cinna had to supress his sudden nausea. The world appeared to be moving at breakneck speed around them. As they stood perfectly still, Cinna could see desert, forests, mountains and oceans fly under their feet.

"You may wonder why my search for your mother's name has taken so long, why it has been placed on hold for such a long time. Truth be told, Cinna, while the other magician has been abroad, my attentions have been diverted elsewhere. But it is my firm belief that he means us harm, and with his return it has become apparent that we must make you King as soon as possible, and I wish your name to be your coronation present. As such, it has become my absolute priority once again."

Cinna had almost forgotten about the strange and bizarre mission to find his name, and had been thankful that the gentleman seemed to have quieted on that particular front. Wherever the gentlemen went in his search, murder seemed to follow, and Cinna had seen quite enough death for his lifetime.

The gentleman snapped his fingers once more, and the world stopped moving under their feet. "You remember where our quest last took us? How the majestic River Mississippi graciously told us of the eagle who ate the remnants of your name? Well, here she is."

Cinna looked around. They were in a country house, and the walls were covered in the trophy heads of animals that had been killed: deer, antelope, bison, and even more exotic creatures, such as lions and tigers. A huge bearskin covered the floor, and mounted upon a perch sat a beautiful stuffed golden eagle.

Cinna felt a sinking desperation. With this particular dead-end, a rampage was sure to follow. "Perhaps it is folly to search for my name after all," said Cinna, hoping to diffuse the situation. "I do not think that I would make a particularly great king, especially when I have so many other duties."

"And it is your humbleness that makes you destined to rule. I have foreseen it," said the gentleman as he walked closer to the dead eagle. With a tenderness that Cinna did not think possible from the gentleman, he reached out and stroked the eagle's golden feathers. As he did so, Cinna could not help but notice the sudden drop in temperature, the frost that spread across the window panes, nor his own breath hanging in the air in front of him. "This eagle was a queen amongst her kind. Her death must be paid back in full."

The gentleman lapsed into a dangerous silence, his pale eyes focused on the only door into the room. After an age, the door opened, and into the room came the man responsible for the eagle's death, followed by his wife, a young daughter, and a wet nurse carrying a tiny baby.

They had not noticed the presence of Cinna or the gentleman, although they had noticed the uncharacteristic cold. No sooner had the man of the house pointed this fact out to his family, did the gentleman whisper a single word. " _Kill_."

Several strange things happened at once. The only exit to the room slammed shut, causing all the occupants, Cinna included, to jump with fright. At the same moment, Cinna had the impression that another world, unseen but brimming with malevolence, occupied the same space as the visible world around him. He saw strange, impossible movements out of the corner of his eye. The bearskin rug seemed to twitch. He swore that the eagle blinked. And then, all at once, hell broke loose. The empty bearskin reared up and filled out, so that a ten-foot behemoth towered over the occupants. With a roar and a single swipe, the bear took the head from the man's wife.

His daughter screamed, while the wet nurse clutching the baby desperately fought to open the door. The man himself seemed momentarily frozen to the spot in horror, before his senses kicked in and he reached for a blunderbuss that was mounted on the wall. The gentleman smiled widely, and as he did so, the blunderbuss melted before the man's eyes.

From the walls even more animals emerged. Their severed heads re-joined with their bodies, and vengeance shone in their eyes. A particularly fine stag charged towards the young daughter, impaling her upon enormous antlers. The wet nurse screamed even louder, and the man howled in a desperate mix of confusion and tragic loss.

"Please, sir," said Cinna, trying to placate the gentleman. "Let the servant and infant go. They are innocent. Please let them live."

Cinna glanced at the gentleman's profile and was momentarily terrified. The gentleman looked less human than ever, his features strangely elongated and animalistic, and the usual scent of blood and roses was entirely over-powering. "They are not innocent," hissed the gentleman. "She chooses to protect the spawn of this murderer and must pay the price."

The lion and tiger circled around the ill-fated nurse and baby. Cinna turned away, completely unable to watch and powerless to help as, with a great roar, the beasts pounced. A terrifying scream arose for a second and was instantly silenced.

The man was whimpering on the floor, praying to a God that would not help him. Cinna felt bile rise in his throat, as out of the corner of his eye, he saw a terrible, slithering creature. An enormous python curled itself around the man and held him steady. At that moment, the eagle-queen screeched, stretched her wings, and took off into the air. A split second later, she dived towards the man. There was a flash of razor-sharp talons, and the eagle flew away again, clutching in her claws a dripping mass of red gore. The eagle had torn out the man's heart.

She flew once around the room before dropping the bloody heart into the gentleman's outstretched hand. He crushed it in his fist and dropped the fleshy mess to the floor.

Cinna felt faint. He turned from the violent scene and reached a steadying hand out to the wall, convinced that he was about to collapse.

The gentleman seemed to misinterpret Cinna's reaction. "Do not worry, my dear Cinna," he said. "This may seem like a dead end, but there are other ways to find your name. This—" he said, withdrawing the carved wooden man from his inner pocket and holding it out for Cinna to see. Cinna had to repress a shudder as the blood on the gentleman's hands coated the figurine. "—was carved by your father as a gift for you. Your mother clutched this to her breast on the day she was taken from her people. She never told your name to this object, but part of it has seeped in. Have no fear, Cinna. All is not lost yet."

\------------------------------

An early morning fog had settled over the streets of London, and it provided a certain amount of cover to the rather luxurious carriage that pulled up outside Mr Mellark's Soho apartments.

An exceptionally well-dressed footman leapt down from the carriage roof, opened the carriage door, and an even more well-dressed occupant stepped out into the swirling fog. He looked around in a covert manner before the two men headed straight towards Mr Mellark's front door.

Moments later, Gale answered the door to the secretive gentleman's servant. He leant in close to Gale's ear and quietly conveyed an urgent message. Gale's eyebrows jumped up his forehead in very clear surprise, and he immediately stood to one side, allowing the well-dressed gentleman entry.

Meanwhile, Mr Mellark was in his study. He was supposed to be studying _A Fraudulent Royal_ by Addison Kirby, but a cursory glance over the work had told him it would contain no words that were of use to him, and so Mr Kirby's only work sat abandoned under a pile of papers.

Instead, Mr Mellark was sketching a portrait of Miss Everdeen. Rather than capturing her melancholy, he drew her as he imagined her during happier times, with laughter making her grey eyes sparkle.

So involved was he in his pastime, that at first he failed to notice Gale enter the room, and it made him start somewhat when Gale cleared his throat to announce the arrival of a guest.

"His Royal Highness, the Duke of York."

In his haste to stand in the presence of royalty, Mr Mellark knocked over a glass of water, ruining the sketch. The distortion of Miss Everdeen's face made it look as though she were now crying. The terrible irony of this was not lost upon Mr Mellark, and he shuddered slightly. But for now there were more pressing matters at hand.

Mr Mellark bowed his head towards the King of England's second son. "Your Grace," he said. "I am humbled and honoured by your visit."

The Duke of York crossed the study and made himself comfortable on a chaise-longue by the window. "I come regarding a matter of the utmost delicacy," said the Duke, indicating that Mr Mellark be seated. The Duke then turned to Gale and said, "I will take tea with cream and sugar."

As soon as Gale bowed out of the room, closing the doors behind him, the Duke spoke once more. "Mr Mellark, is your loyalty with my father, the King? Or would you prefer rule to pass to my brother, the Prince Regent?"

This was indeed a very loaded question, and Mr Mellark was at first unsure of how to answer, lest he greatly offend the very powerful man in his presence. "My loyalty is to England," he said delicately.

The Duke seemed somewhat satisfied with this answer. He nodded thoughtfully and said, "Wellington speaks very highly of you."

Mr Mellark held his breath. He had heard rumours that he may be bestowed some kind of title following his successes in Europe. He had also heard rumours that granting him a title would also mean granting something similar to Heavensbee, and that no one in government felt quite comfortable with having to call Heavensbee "Your Grace," or "My Lord." As such, it appeared that the suggestion of honouring Mr Mellark had been pushed by the wayside. Perhaps he would finally be shown the recognition he deserved after all?

"I am truly honoured that he speaks of me at all, Your Grace, and particularly to one such as yourself."

Again, the Duke nodded thoughtfully, and it was a while before he spoke again. "My father is...ill, Mr Mellark. His discomfort grows daily. I am certain that the Prince Regent would be far happier were the King to simply... fail to wake up one day. After all, while the King is capable of making a recovery, The Prince Regent will never be England's one and only governor. My brother has often spoken of how tiresome it is to wake up in the morning and not know if he is the ruler of England or not." The Duke paused for a moment, a bitter look on his face, before his countenance became an entirely blank slate once again. "It distresses me so to see my father's loss of reason. I hope you understand, Mr Mellark, the need for absolute discretion regarding this matter. It would not do well for the common citizens of England to know how far afflicted their monarch is. Neither would it be well for England to wake up to one as fond of debauchery as the Prince Regent as her permanent ruler."

"Of course," said Mr Mellark. Both men fell silent as Gale returned bearing a tray of tea. Gale had thoughtfully used the best china and silverware. He placed this on a small coffee table between the two gentlemen, and bowed before exiting.

As Mr Mellark waited for the Duke to continue, he contemplated what the Duke had told him. King George III had been suffering from a recurring illness that afflicted his mind and spirits, and since the death of his favourite daughter, that illness had been even more debilitating. The King's eldest son had been ruling as Regent ever since. Mr Mellark was still not exactly certain what it was the Duke wished for him to do, but he felt the possibility of his own recognition once again.

"So you will help him, then?" asked the Duke, as he reached for a delicate china tea cup, and sipped appreciatively at the hot liquid.

"Help him?" repeated Mr Mellark, feeling far more panic than his cool demeanour showed.

"You will cure his madness?"

Mr Mellark experienced a terrible, sinking sensation deep within the pit of his stomach. Another person wanting to use magic to cure an affliction of the mind? Years of trying to do the same for Miss Everdeen had not worked well for him. And now he was being commissioned to try and cure the King? What would happen after his inevitable failure? And what if, God forbid, he made the King's madness worse? Would he be tried for treason? Imprisoned in the Tower of London like so many other traitors, only to be executed years later when his name had been forgotten by the people? His tie suddenly felt too tight around his throat, as if his own clothes were already forming a noose by which to hang him, and he surreptitiously attempted to loosen the offending article.

Mr Mellark opened his mouth to speak, but found that the words would not come. "There are...certain...difficulties—" he began.

"Yes, Wellington told me you would likely try to explain why something is impossible. He told me you did something similar to him on a daily basis in the Peninsula. He also told me you were then able to navigate around all difficulties and find a solution."

"Your Grace, the mind is... a very complex thing. The problems I was able to overcome within the army were entirely practical. I should not wish to do anything that would cause any further harm to His Majesty."

Once again, the Duke nodded thoughtfully as he sipped at his tea. "You cannot cure him then?"

"My deepest apologies, Your Grace. I do not believe that I can."

"Then my wish is nothing more nor less than for you to visit him. See if there is anything you might do to aid his comfort." The Duke smiled sardonically and added, "And I shall give you my word that you will not be arrested should you fail."

\--------------------------

Visiting the King would not be an easy task. The Duke had warned Mr Mellark of His Majesty's personal attendants: Dr Leeg and Dr Leeg. While the two brothers' methods for treating madness were nowhere near as strict, nor as brutal as those employed in Bethlem, they still kept a tight and rigid routine for the King. This routine made it difficult for even the King's own sons to visit him. And so Mr Mellark employed a little magic to aid him. He awoke early, so that he might cast several spells, ones which would cause the two doctors' servants to sleep in and fail to wake their masters; ones which would cause their buttons to fall from their clothes and their boot laces to snap; and ones which would create much traffic, and prevent their carriages from travelling through the streets of London. Mr Mellark reasoned that this should, at least, buy him a little time alone with the King. As he worked hard to set the spells in place, Mr Mellark felt a little guilt at the questionable ethics of using spells so directly against an innocent party. But he put his guilt firmly to one side. This was for the greater good, for the benefit of England's monarch. And after all, he had done far, far worse when at war.

The Duke had sent a message to the rest of the King's servants, telling them to allow Mr Mellark entry to see the King, and at a little after nine in the morning, Mr Mellark found himself in Windsor Castle, with a rather fussy governess leading him down an opulent corridor to meet the King himself.

"I do hope, sir, that you might be able to aid him. He was, indeed still is, a wonderful man, and of course I helped to look after his sons, and am most fortunate that, though they have grown and flown the nest, I might still stay here. It is part of his treatment, you see. His doctors believe that he needs structure, and I have been a part of the King's life for so long now, that any change could be terribly damaging to him. I wonder where his doctors are, in fact. They are usually here by now, and they like to stick to a tight schedule."

The governess stopped in front of a set of double doors, which she unlocked with a heavy iron key. "Thank you, Mrs—"

"Trinket," replied the woman. " _Miss_ Trinket."

Mr Mellark felt his cheeks flush with colour, and he quickly bowed his head towards the governess, and opened the double doors.

He found himself in an enormous room. Huge windows looked out onto the castle grounds, and through them, glorious sunshine spilled. All the furniture was mahogany, an intricate Persian rug covered most of the floor, and everywhere the eye could see, golden ornaments reflected the sun like many tiny mirrors.

And yet despite the opulence, Mr Mellark immediately felt trapped. This feeling was compounded when, behind him, he heard the double doors shut, and the distinctive click of the lock being turned.

The King of England was in the very centre of the room. He wore a nightshirt and rich purple dressing gown, along with a matching nightcap. He played a mournful tune upon a harpsichord, occasionally speaking and laughing with an invisible companion.

Standard protocol dictated that Mr Mellark not speak unless first addressed by His Majesty. However, under the circumstances, Mr Mellark felt that he would likely be stood all day waiting to be addressed, and so he nervously cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Your Majesty, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Peeta Mellark, magician to Your Majesty's army. I am here at the request of your son who wishes me to aid your comfort."

"Magician?" snorted the King, not looking up from his playing. "Cheap conjurers of party tricks. Tell the magician I have absolutely no wish to see him." The King stopped playing momentarily and looked up. His eyes widened and a smile uplifted the corners of his mouth. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "but I see the magician's companion very well indeed! How could I miss him, with his shining white hair and regal bearing?"

The King appeared to be looking at a spot several feet to the left of where Mr Mellark stood. The empty space held the King's rapt attention.

"Your sons care deeply for you," continued Mr Mellark, "and it greatly distresses them to see you this way."

"Panem?" said the King, still addressing the empty space. "I have never heard of it."

Already Mr Mellark felt that it had been a folly to come. He looked desperately around the room, and wondered how often the King was allowed to leave. His keepers seemed to treat him almost as a prisoner…. Mr Mellark could not imagine that being locked in a room all day would help the King's state of mind. Perhaps he would not need magic to cure the King after all? Perhaps simply treating him like a human and not an animal in a zoo would help? "I wonder if a walk would help to lift Your Majesty's spirits?" said Mr Mellark, struck by inspiration. "I am told that the gardens here are unrivalled."

"Oh, please do not think me rude!" cried the King. "I may not have heard of Panem, but you and I are both kings. We are brothers! Let us not fight and argue! Tell me of Panem. Do they treat royalty better than they do in England?"

Unsure of what else to do, Mr Mellark withdrew a notebook from his pocket. In all his years of study, he had been unable to find much pertaining to madness in his researches, and even less pertaining to curing it. One hastily scribbled note simply read, " _The colour red may be beneficial._ " As to how precisely the colour red could aid him, he did not know.

"Well that sounds delightful!" exclaimed the King. "I should very much like to attend one of these balls. I do not get much opportunity for dancing. The last dance I attended was over two hundred years ago, at the bottom of the North Sea."

With one eye on the King, Mr Mellark continued to read. Heavensbee was well aware that Mr Mellark had been summoned to visit the King. Indeed, his tutor was delighted about the fact. "Despite your inevitable failure, this is precisely what modern magic needs," Heavensbee had said. "If you are seen to be helping the King, it will finally quash those rumours that you used Dark magic during the Peninsula war! There is very little literature on the subject of madness; indeed, the Golden Age magicians preferred not to cure it. They regarded madmen as prophets and seers." Mr Heavensbee had shaken his head in disgust. "However, I do believe I know of one spell which might be of use."

Mr Heavensbee had then taken a book from a shelf, careful not to allow Mr Mellark to see the title, and had written the spell in Mr Mellark's notebook. He found this now, and quickly perused the words.

" _Place the moon at my eyes so I no longer see deceiving sights_

_Place bees at my ears so I can no more hear lies_

_Place salt in my mouth so I am not tempted by honey_

_Place a nail through my hand so I may not lift it to do a liar's bidding_

_Place my heart in a safe place where my enemy will not find it._ "

The spell was meaningless. How on Earth was he supposed to fetch the moon in order to place it at the King's eyes? And he could only imagine his punishment if attempted to drive a nail through the monarch's hands! Out of frustration he roughly thrust his notebook back in his pocket.

"A walk outside! Oh yes! How I long to see England again! They have kept me prisoner here for a thousand years!"

The King's words snapped Mr Mellark back to attention. It seemed that at last the King had registered his conversation. "Outside. Yes. Does your Majesty know the way? I fear I do not, and I should not wish to offend by leading you incorrectly."

The King turned his head to face Mr Mellark. "Oh," he said. "Are you coming too?"

"Yes. If your Majesty permits it."

The King sighed as he stood up. "Very well," he said, then turned to face the empty spot to the left of Mr Mellark. "Lead the way, dear fellow."

"But, your Majesty, I do not know the way."

The King listened intently for a few moments, then burst into raucous laughter. "I agree," he said, wiping tears of joy from his eyes on the sleeve of his dressing gown. "Entirely foolish." He covered his mouth and giggled like a naughty child, then looked at Mr Mellark. "Follow me, fool," he said, before laughing heartily once more.

Mr Mellark hesitated for just a moment, before the King walked straight up to the double doors. He was about to point out that the doors had been locked, and offer to open them by magic, but the King turned the door handle and pushed the doors open with a flourish.

He shook his head in confusion. He had been utterly convinced that the doors were locked. He must have been mistaken…

The corridors of Windsor were curiously empty of any servants or attendants, and it was not long before Mr Mellark and the King of England were stood together in the magnificent grounds.

A grove of twelve silver birches stood behind a beautifully carved marble fountain, and it was towards this that the King gleefully began to stride.

"My dear England!" he said, spreading his arms wide. "I have not seen her in many hundreds of years. Does she still remember me, I wonder? Ah, yes! Yes, she does! Hear that, magician? She calls to me!"

Mr Mellark smiled encouragingly at the King's enthusiasm, and then shook himself. For a moment, he swore that he could hear music. It was terribly sad and melancholy; the sole pipe and viol never strayed from the minor key, and though he could not place the mournful tune, Mr Mellark swore that it was somehow familiar to him.

"You wish to go now?" said the King, stopping abruptly. He looked thoughtfully at the tie of his dressing gown, then chewed on the end for a few moments. "Very well, then. But I will need you to pass a message on to my harpsichord. He is a dear and trusted friend, and it is my deepest wish for him to rule England in my stead until we return."

With that statement, the King began to march once more towards the grove of trees. Only… they no longer appeared to be a grove. Nor were they the slender, willowy forms of the silver birch. The trees formed a wild thicket, and were ancient-looking and un-English. They felt hostile to Mr Mellark, as if the trees themselves meant him harm.

"Your Majesty," he called out. "I think perhaps we should return inside."

But the King was not listening to him. Instead he danced to an imaginary waltz with an invisible partner, a rapturous look of pure joy upon his face.

"Your Majesty?" he tried one more time before he stopped in his tracks. He heard music once again, but this time the music spoke to him directly. It described his entire life: the disappointment he had always felt from his mother, the frustration he felt at constantly having to curtail to Mr Heavensbee, the secret longing he felt for Miss Everdeen….

Deep within the dark wood of trees, a homestead could be seen. A warm, orange glow, suggestive of a fireplace and many candles, came from the windows.

The King laughed again as he spun round and around. "Come, magician! A new life awaits us in Panem!"

"Yes," whispered Mr Mellark in response, as he too began to walk slowly towards the welcoming glow of this new home. The music no longer appeared sad to him. Instead it spoke of everything that he deserved, everything that would be his if he just followed. It perfectly described the library full of wonders at Northolt Abbey that Heavensbee refused to allow him to see, but it also explained to him that the knowledge contained therein paled in comparison with what he would learn in Panem.

The next few phrases of music spoke of his mother's disappointment and the vague sense of failure he had always carried with him. After his success in the war, after Wellington had been made a Duke, Mr Mellark had expected some form of thanks from the government; after all, he had been instrumental to Wellington's success, yet his efforts had been ignored and unappreciated. But not in Panem. There he would be celebrated as a hero.

Finally, the music spoke of Miss Everdeen—how she would never, ever be his. Even if she were in her right mind, she would never want him. There was absolutely nothing keeping him in England. If he were ever to be truly happy, he would need to move on, find someone else.

"But there is no one else that I want," said Mr Mellark.

The music spoke louder than before. _The women in Panem are so much more beautiful than Miss Everdeen_ , it said. _She dims as a candle in comparison to the sun._

"I do not believe you," he answered.

Two women, golden and glowing and perfect, stepped out of thin air. He was utterly mesmerised by them, and could not tear his eyes away as these two incarnations of Helen of Troy glided towards him.

Both women were blonde, curvaceous, and possessed full, red lips. One had sparkling green eyes, and her skin was glowing to the point that she seemed to glimmer in the pale sunlight. The other was tall and willowy, with doe-like brown eyes. She reached Mr Mellark first and stroked his face with a touch as soft as cashmere.

His head felt fuzzy and the more he tried to fight against it and recall the sight of Miss Everdeen, the more she seemed to slip from his mind.

_Yes_ , whispered the music. _Forget her_.

"Yes," he whispered back. Oh, how he longed for love! How desperately he yearned for affection, and for a woman worthy of him!

_Miss Everdeen will never love you_ , said the music. _She will never hold you, or touch you, or offer you comfort or pleasure. Not like we can._

The woman whose skin seemed to shine and glimmer wound her arms around Mr Mellark's neck and pressed a deep kiss on to his lips. She tasted of wild strawberries and he could not help the small groan of appreciation escaping his throat as she deepened the kiss even further. Her tongue sought entry to his mouth, and at the same time, the woman with the cashmere touch pulled open the buttons of Mr Mellark's waistcoat. She tore his shirt from his trousers and slid her hand underneath.

He shuddered very slightly at the sudden warm and gentle touch. Her hand ran over his stomach before deftly popping open the buttons of his trousers. Without warning, he felt her soft touch plunge into his underwear, and her fingers wrapped around his rapidly hardening length.

"Oh, God," he choked, pulling away from the kisses of the woman with shining skin. All conscious thought left him. He could no longer remember his own name, nor why he was here….

_See_ , whispered the music. _You do not need anything but us. Follow us to a life of unmatched bliss._

He watched, mouth agape, as the two women began to kiss each other while the one with the cashmere touch continued to stroke him. He had never witnessed nor even imagined anything so erotic in his life, and soon was matching the woman's strokes with shallow thrusts of his own.

He became fixated by their lips, pressing into each other's. Those full, soft lips, as deeply red as blood….

_Red. The colour red may be beneficial._

The words fought through the haze of his current state of mind, alerting him to the possibility of danger, and it felt as though the terrible fuzziness in his head cleared somewhat. Instantly, more words came back to him.

" _Place the moon at my eyes so I no longer see deceiving sights._ "

He focused on the words and a great, white light filled his entire field of vision, blinding him momentarily. When it faded back to daylight, the two beautiful creatures that had stood before him had vanished. He glanced over to the wild thicket of trees, and the homestead within no longer looked warm and welcoming; instead, it appeared cold, desolate and subject to decay.

" _Place bees at my ears so I can no more hear lies_."

All he could hear was the deafening buzzing of a hundred thousand bees. The music could no longer speak to him, and once the bees quieted, he could hear it as it truly was: sad and mournful and full of broken promises.

" _Place salt in my mouth so I am not tempted by honey._ "

The delicious flavour of wild strawberries evaporated and was instantly replaced by the overpowering taste of salt. Mr Mellark retched on it, was gagging on it…

" _Place a nail through my hand so I may not lift it to do a liar's bidding._ "

A sudden sharp pain struck him through the palm of his right hand, causing him to almost stumble over. The desire to leave England was gone. This was his home and it always would be.

_Place my heart in a safe place where my enemy will not find it._ "

In his mind's eye, he pictured Miss Everdeen as he had seen her so many times, in the window seat of the drawing room of her home in Piccadilly. He gave her his heart. She placed it in a golden locket which she wore around her neck. No one else knew it was there.

In blind panic, Mr Mellark looked around for the King, redressing himself as he did so. He spotted the King mere feet away from the grove of trees, which now looked almost as though they were reaching for him.

He focused his mind entirely upon the King and repeated the spell, hurrying towards him as he did so. The King seemed to be swatting the air, presumably trying to rid himself of the sound of bees, and he cried and collapsed to the ground in pain, clutching at his own right hand.

"Let us get you back inside, Your Majesty," said Mr Mellark, bending down to help the monarch regain his footing.

"Yes," said the King very softly. "Yes, I suppose you are right. I cannot leave England yet. That dratted harpsichord is a fool. I cannot leave my beloved England in his hands. Thank you for making me stay, magician."

The two men slowly walked back to the castle, while Mr Mellark kept glancing over his shoulder towards the trees. They had returned to their original state. Whatever magic had been at work, it had been malevolent and ancient, and Mr Mellark could not sleep for several nights as he wondered precisely what fate he had saved the King, and indeed himself, from.


	12. Chapter 12

Cinna nearly dropped the crystal decanter he had been polishing when the gentleman with snow-white hair appeared before him. He had never seen the gentleman in such a terrible rage.

"He foiled me, Cinna! He foiled us both!"

The gentleman paced back and forth around the kitchen. A jug of water instantly turned to ice as he stormed past it, and frost began to creep across every surface. Cinna had seen the gentleman in such a state many time before and knew that he was at his most dangerous. Cinna had to do anything in his power to appease the gentleman. He could not stomach any further killing on his behalf.

"Who foiled you, sir? And in what way?"

"The other magician, of course!" declared the gentleman. "I had plans to push for you to be king. Of course, in order for you to become king, we would have to be rid of the old one. And I learned that the magician was to be visiting the mad king. So I thought I could destroy two of our enemies in one go! Kill the king and make it look as though the magician were the murderer!"

Cinna froze, his breath catching in his throat. Surely the gentleman had not made an attempt on the King of England's life? Fear paralyzed him to the spot, and he gripped the edge of the table for support.

"Please, sir. Please tell me that you did not—"

"No, of course I did not kill him," interrupted the gentleman. "Were you not listening, Cinna? Anyway, after meeting the king, I decided to spare his life anyway. I had never taken the time to visit him, and I must say, I am sorry that I had not. I had assumed he would be as all Englishmen are, full of arrogance and self-importance, but he turned out to be a rather charming fellow! He was most respectful, and naturally enamoured of me, and so I decided to spare him.

"Did you know, Cinna, how the English treat their sovereign? They had him locked up, as if he were nothing more than an exhibition at a zoo! Well, of course I generously offered him a new home! I thought he would be far happier in Panem, and I sought to lure the magician there as well, where he would no longer be of any trouble to us, but the magician used an ancient spell against me! He thwarted my every move! He is a tricksy fellow, that one, and has been working against us from the start. I have every mind to head to him now and kill him once and for all!"

"There is no need for that," soothed Cinna. "I am sure he did not know that you were working in the king's best interest. He was sent to aid the king, after all. I am sure he was not working against you intentionally." Cinna waited with baited breath as the gentleman considered this rather strange possibility.

"Perhaps you are right," said the gentleman, after much consideration. "After all, there is no possible way he could have bested me _intentionally_. You are, as always, correct, Cinna. What would I do without you? Still, I am in something of a distemper, and someone should pay the price."

"Please, sir, there is no harm done. After all, I cannot be king until you find my name, is that not so? No one needs to be punished for this." said Cinna, desperate to find some way to soothe the gentleman's anger.

"Very well," huffed the gentleman. "I will not kill anyone today. But you will have to learn to be more ruthless when you rule over these people, Cinna. You cannot afford to give them even an inch, or they will take everything from you!"

\-----------

The Hob in Covent Garden was a favourite place for gentlemen to gather, play billiards, and drink into the early hours. The air was always thick with tobacco smoke and animated conversation, and it was to this established club that Mr Mellark always found himself drawn on his rare free nights. One pleasant Wednesday evening in late May, he insisted upon taking Mr Odair, as well as Captain Mellark and Major Boggs.

The first three games had proceeded happily enough, but during the fourth, an argument, exacerbated by an excess of brandy, arose between the two brothers.

"Stop using magic! I shall refuse to play if you continue to cheat!"

"I am not cheating! But if you refuse to play, be my guest. Your standards are sub-par any way. I doubt any one would notice were you to simply quit."

"That last shot was nigh-on impossible. Of course you cheated!"

"Baseless accusations!"

"I saw you scratch the side of your nose before you took the shot."

"Good God, man, am I no longer allowed to relieve myself of an itch, for fear of being thought a cheat?"

Mr Odair and Major Boggs watched the discourse with an air of amusement. Arguments amongst patrons were common, after all, and so much more so when those two patrons happened to be siblings.

After several minutes of heated discussion, a new voice interrupted the quarrel.

"Excuse me, sirs, but if you are finished using the table, might we instead have a game?"

The two brothers immediately stopped their bickering, and all four men looked up. Before them stood two gentlemen. Their quaint country fashions proclaimed them to be out-of-towners that stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the fashionable patrons and surroundings of The Hob. One was middle-aged and had a pair of prince-nez spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his nose; the other ancient and decrepit. Mr Mellark secretly wondered how the elder of the two men could possibly bear to stand up long enough for a game of billiards.

"I beg your pardon?" said Captain Mellark, his animosity towards his brother forgotten in an instant.

"Well," said the younger of the two men, and he spoke in an accent that sounded common to the gentlemen's ears, "it appears to me that you are more concerned with your conversation than with your game, and I wonder if you might continue it away from the table, so that others might use it."

"If you were to look closely," said Major Boggs, speaking patiently as if to a young child, "you would notice that a game has already started."

"I see," said the younger man, speaking in a perfectly reasonable tone, "but it also appears to me that none of you are actually playing. We have ordered dinner and been told it will take an hour, and so are looking for an amusement to pass the time. Allow us use of the table whilst you have your chat, and we will gladly vacate it once you are done."

"Who are you?" demanded Major Boggs. "Where are you from?"

"My name is Mr Beetee and this—" he said, indicating the elderly gentleman, "—is Mr Woof. We are from Nottinghamshire, and are here on business."

"Well," said Captain Mellark, bristling at the two country gentlemen, "I am not sure how things work in Nottinghamshire, but allow me to assure you that here in London, one does not ask a table to be vacated once a game has started. No sir, that is not how things are done at all!"

"Ah, is it not?" said Mr Beetee . "Well, would you mind telling me how long you will be?"

The four friends looked at each other in astonishment, before Mr Odair flashed an easy smile and said, "We will take as long as the game requires, no more or less. And you may have the table as soon as we are done."

The elderly Mr Woof whispered something into his younger friend's ear, then Mr Beetee straightened up and said, "Well, sirs, I can see that you are being deliberately obtuse. Mr Woof has an eagle-eye for mischief, and while your words may sound kind, he could see the looks that passed between you, which blatantly spoke of your disregard for us. This is Mr Woof's first visit to London, and I assure you, so far he does not wish to return!"

"Well, don't allow us to keep you," snapped Captain Mellark. "Please, feel free to return to _Nothing_ -shire. Don't you have pigs to be fed? Crops to be watered? It is little wonder that English farming is in such a perilous state!"

"We are not farmers, sir!" said Mr Beetee, speaking in a scandalised tone. "Mr Woof and I are brewers! We take great pride in the quality of our ales!"

"If you came to London to expand your business, you are to be sorely disappointed," said Major Boggs, turning away from the two country men. "We have brewers enough in London. Good day to you, sirs."

"We are not here to further our own business! We are here to further the most noble and worthy cause of all! The cause of English magic! And as London is at the centre of the scholarship, naturally we came here to meet with our tutor in person!"

"Your tutor?" said Mr Mellark, his brows furrowed. "Heavensbee has taken on more pupils? I find that highly unlikely."

"Not Mr Heavensbee, no sir. He has no time to take on extra pupils. I speak, of course, of the other magician, Mr Mellark!"

So surprised was he to hear his own name mentioned that Mr Mellark almost lost his footing and was forced to lean back against the billiard table to steady himself.

"I believe there must be some kind of mistake," said Mr Odair.

"No mistake, sir," said Mr Beetee with an air of infuriating calmness.

Mr Mellark reached for his brandy glass to take a few calming sips, while his brother seemed to find the whole situation highly amusing. "You are studying under Mr Mellark? Well, well, well. We must watch our step then! Pray tell me, what does Mr Mellark look like, for I have long wished to behold the esteemed magician!"

"Rye," said Mr Mellark warningly, but Mr Beetee continued to talk. "I cannot give you precise details, for so far all of our education has been conducted by letters. But we have journeyed to London in the express hopes that we might meet with Mr Mellark at last!"

"An education by letters?" continued Captain Mellark, barely hiding his smirk. "I would think such an education would be highly inferior."

"Not at all!" said Mr Beetee, while Mr Woof nodded his support. "I find that Mr Mellark's letters are full of remarkable insight into the condition of English magic. Why, just the other day, Mr Woof wrote to Mr Mellark, asking for a spell to make it stop raining, for we have been experiencing a great deal more than usual, and the letter we received in return explained that English magic has been nurtured by English soil, which in turn is nurtured by English weather. To try to change one is to directly affect the other, and must be avoided at all costs unless in the direst need. By meddling with the weather, we risk meddling with the very foundations of English magic. And both Mr Woof and I agreed that such insight could only come from one with an understanding of the fundamentals of English magic, such as Mr Mellark himself."

There was a moment of silence before Mr Odair turned to Mr Mellark and said, "Have you ever said anything of the sort?"

Mr Mellark thought hard before answering. "Why, yes, I believe I did. Just two weeks ago, in fact!"

"And who did you say it to?"

"Heavensbee, of course."

"And was there anyone else in the room?"

Mr Mellark thought hard again, and the image of a spiteful dandy popped into his head. "Crane," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. Turning to the Nottinghamshire gentlemen, Mr Mellark said, "Sirs, I apologise if we have appeared abrupt. But it appears that we have both been played for fools by a rather nasty little man. I am Peeta Mellark, and I assure you I had heard neither of your names until now."

"I do not understand what you mean by this, sirs, but if it supposed to be some kind of joke, I fail to see any humour in it," said Mr Beetee , while Mr Woof nodded fervently.

"No joke, I assure you," said Mr Mellark. "Tell me, have you been paying for this education?"

"Naturally," replied Mr Beetee.

"And to where have you been sending the money?"

"To an address on Little Portland Street."

Mr Mellark shook his head, and turned to Mr Odair. "That little worm! I have long warned Mr Heavensbee of keeping his company, and here is the proof I was correct!"

But the two Nottinghamshire gentlemen found it hard to believe that the man in front of them was indeed the magician. In their minds they had formed an image of him being a venerable, deep-voiced gentleman with a long, flowing beard. The young, clean-shaven man in front of them did not fit their expectations at all.

"Then allow him to prove that he is who he says he is," said Captain Mellark, who was finding the whole exchange exceptionally amusing.

"Precisely," said Major Boggs. "If he performs a piece of magic now, you can hardly doubt that he is the greatest magician in the land."

"I thought that the honour of being the greatest magician lay upon the shoulders of Mr Heavensbee."

Captain Mellark looked ready to draw his pistols and silence the country gentleman once and for all, but Major Boggs spoke first. "Sirs, I had the honour of fighting alongside Mr Mellark during the Peninsular War. I cannot speak for Heavensbee's achievements, but it was this gentleman—Mr Mellark—whom we all trusted. Allow him to prove it."

"And what will you do?" said Mr Beetee, who still eyed Mr Mellark with a degree of cynicism.

But it was Mr Odair who spoke first. He indicated a large, ornate Venetian mirror that took up most of the back wall. "He will step into the other side of that mirror!"

The enthusiastic response from both Major Boggs and Captain Mellark prevented Mr Mellark from voicing his concerns as his three friends shepherded him to stand before the mirror. What he was about to attempt was not only incredibly dangerous, but would likely cause Heavensbee to faint with palpitations. He had once heard Mr Heavensbee talk about how all mirrors in the world were somehow connected. He hadn't understood precisely what Heavensbee had meant, and when he had questioned his tutor, Heavensbee had suddenly looked alarmed and changed the subject. Clearly this was a forbidden subject.

He finished the rest of his brandy, and the alcohol coursing through his veins made him reckless. He thought about Mr Crane's betrayal and smirked as a plan began to formulate in his mind.

When he had first discovered that he had an aptitude for magic, Mr Mellark had been forced to invent and improvise all of his own spells. And so he would have to trust his own instincts once again for this to work. He placed a hand on the glass surface of the mirror. A simple Dissolution spell was the first step he required. Focusing his mind entirely upon the surface, he took a deep breath and pressed hard on the glass. A faint ripple, like a pebble that had been dropped in a lake, emanated from underneath his hand, and as the ripple passed over the glass, a different landscape could be viewed within the mirror. Without a second thought, Mr Mellark stepped inside the mirror.

The sensation of stepping through the glass was comparable to walking through a sheet of ice water. Instantly, the sounds of The Hob were silenced. He turned on the spot and could see Mr Beetee and Mr Woof looking into the mirror in absolute disbelief, while Major Boggs and Captain Mellark laughed in a hearty manner. Mr Odair stood to one side, a look of terrible concern on his handsome face, as if he were already regretting his suggestion.

Swallowing his nerves, he turned back to face his surroundings and almost immediately collapsed from a sense of wonder. He was stood in a vast stone hallway. Pathways led off in every direction. Mr Mellark could spy at least fifty enormous stone archways. He hurried over to the first one and looked through. Before him, a great staircase hewn from rock descended down into the bowels of the earth, and Mr Mellark could not see the bottom. He backed away nervously and turned to the next archway. Similarly, another staircase stretched out before him, but this led straight up into the sky, twisting and turning, until it pierced the grey clouds.

And flying every which way, there were hundreds of thousands of birds, dancing through the air. Mr Mellark fancied that they were trying to write upon the sky in some unknown language, and if only he could comprehend it, all knowledge would be his. Mr Mellark craned his neck to look closer. "Ravens," he whispered to himself. _Then I must be in Faerie,_ he thought. The realisation hit him like a hammer. He was the first English magician to pass into Faerie in over three hundred years! He felt a little dizzy as he backed away from the staircase and forced himself to focus on his end destination, less he become lost and never find his way out from this strange land.

As he continued to walk, he became aware of some of his surroundings. He passed by an enormous lake full of still, black water that oozed a kind of ancient malevolence. There were narrow bridges criss-crossing the entire landscape, and in the far distance, he could make out a decaying castle, and he fancied that he could just about see its red banners fluttering gently in the breeze.

Most remarkable of all, everywhere he looked, he saw the same person again and again. Statues of him, paintings of him… a young, beautiful, raven-haired man. This land had been built by the Raven King.

Mr Mellark had no idea how long he walked for, but by the time he reached the end of the path, his head hurt from concentrating so hard. In front of him was a rather large rectangular frame that appeared to hang by itself in the air, and within this frame Mr Mellark could see an unfamiliar room. He braced himself for the feeling of ice cold, and pushed through the mirror to the other side.

He stepped out into a well-proportioned room that contained two occupants. One man and one woman. The woman had a thin, pinched face but appeared delighted with Mr Mellark's sudden and uninvited appearance. The man, however, paled to grey at the sight of him.

"Well, with an entrance like that, surely you can be none other than the famous Mr Mellark! I am truly overjoyed that we can meet at last!" said the woman. "Why, Mr Crane was just explaining to me that it would be almost impossible for us to meet in the flesh, and yet here you are! Perhaps now we might get to business!"

"Perhaps indeed," said Mr Mellark, taking the woman's overt enthusiasm to meet him entirely in his stride. "And perhaps Mr Crane might like to make the formal introductions, as we have not been properly introduced."

"Mr Mellark, this is Mrs Evelyn Clove," mumbled Mr Crane, in a barely audible voice. He seemed entirely unwilling to look up or make any attempt at eye contact.

"I think it so much better to do this in person, wouldn't you agree?" said Mrs Clove. "Correspondence by letter and through a third party can become so tiresome."

"Oh, I agree," said Mr Mellark. "Entirely tiresome."

"Well, you already have the money. When might I expect to see the results?"

Mr Mellark glanced over at Mr Crane, who was becoming paler by the second. "You must forgive me, Mrs Clove," he said. "I find myself becoming rather absent-minded of late. It appears that I have far too many clients to keep up with. Remind me how much you have paid me, and for what services."

She tutted rather impatiently then said, "Four hundred Guineas! For you to humiliate and destroy the lives of those who have humiliated and destroyed me!"

"Four hundred Guineas, you say? Seems rather a steep price," replied Mr Mellark, looking pointedly at Mr Crane, who seemed to have turned to granite, both in colour and in fluidity, or lack thereof. "But perhaps you would care to remind me of precisely what you require and why. It is so easy to lose details in correspondence. If I could hear it in your own words, it would make this so much easier."

Mrs Clove rolled her eyes at what she clearly perceived to be an entirely unreasonable request, and then began to speak in an impatient tone. "Three years ago I made what appeared to be an advantageous marriage. The man I married was incredibly wealthy, and although I did not love him, for he was far older than me, and not at all handsome or interesting, my father convinced me that it would be in my best interest to marry him. But just last year I met another man. And he was everything I had originally hoped for in a husband. He was young and handsome, moved in all the right social circles, and undeniably rich as well. We fell in love. I had every intention of leaving my husband. Indeed, I hoped that I could convince him to divorce me so that I might be free to marry this new love. But my new love and I quarrelled, and my husband found out about us. Now both he and my husband have cast me aside, and I am left with nothing at all! I am at the mercy of my father, who wishes to send me to a nunnery for the shame I have brought to the family! I have so far convinced him not to send me away, and he has agreed to provide for me, but on the sole condition I live my life as a perfect recluse." Her eyes lost focus for a moment, as if she were contemplating everything she had lost. But after a moment she sat up straight and opened a small leather-bound notebook. "And so to business," she said. "I have, as you suggested, made a list of every person who has betrayed me, and have kept a note of your own suggested punishments."

"I told you to make a list, did I? Goodness me, I am organised, am I not?" Mrs Clove offered the note book to him, but rather than take it, Mr Mellark smiled and said, "Truth be told, I have been standing for many hours. Would it be terribly rude of me to request a drink and a seat?"

"Of course," said Mrs Clove, and she nodded to a waiting footman, who poured Mr Mellark a glass of red wine.

He accepted the drink and sat back in an armchair, all the time keeping a close eye on Mr Crane. "Would you care to read the list to me, and refresh my memory of what I have offered to do for you?" said Mr Mellark. "Forgive me for this, madam. I merely wish to ensure an appropriate price has been charged."

"Of course," snapped Mrs Clove, and she looked over her notes. "Firstly, my father. I suppose that I can trace all my miseries back to him. After all, it was he who suggested I marry Mr Clove in the first place. If it wasn't for his insistence I would never have been in this situation. However, I cannot wish too harsh a punishment upon him. And so I heartily approve of your suggestion of gout."

"Gout?" said Mr Mellark, spluttering on his glass of wine. "As I understand it, gout is extremely painful!"

"But it is hardly life-threatening," said Mrs Clove, waving a dismissive hand. "Secondly, my tedious cousin. She is to be married to a clergyman, and my father has offered to pay for her clothes, and she attends all the parties and dinners that I should be invited to! You have suggested that we merely break up the engagement, but might I suggest something a little more devious? Perhaps you could ensure she loses her beauty in some way? Ensure that she will never be offered the pleasures that are being denied to me?"

Mr Mellark fought hard to maintain his composure in the face of such a disagreeable woman. "We shall see," he said. "Please continue."

"My husband, Mr Clove. For the humiliation of forcing me to endure such a terrible marriage, I wish to see him equally humiliated. He paid more attention to his dogs than to I, and so— and I adore the irony of the punishment you have suggested here—any dog that sees him henceforth shall bite him." Mrs Clove chuckled in contemplation of this particular punishment. She failed to notice that Mr Mellark's countenance had become incredibly pale, nor that he needed to take several slow sips of his wine before he was able to say in a deadpan voice, "I clearly have quite a wicked sense of humour."

Mrs Clove did not pick up on Mr Mellark's sarcasm, for she chuckled to herself before she continued. "Next, Mrs Clove senior."

"Your husband's mother, I presume?" said Mr Mellark. His nose was wrinkled in clear distaste towards the young woman in front of him, as he wondered how many more people had managed to incite Mrs Clove's wrath.

"Naturally. What a terrible woman she is! So insufferably house-proud, and more than willing to bore me to death on the subject. You have suggested that she drown in her own laundry tub, but I should like to see more than that. I also wish for her to be baked to death in her bread oven, choke on her homemade preserves, and be poisoned by her silver polish."

"Forgive me madam," interrupted Mr Mellark. He felt terribly queasy at the rather blasé manner in which Mrs Clove spoke of her mother-in-law's planned murder, and fought hard to remain composed. "But even the greatest magician of all time could not mete out four deaths upon a single person."

Mrs Clove looked bitterly disappointed. "Well, just do what you can, but make sure she suffers! And finally, the worst of them all. The man who convinced me to leave my husband. He is to suffer more than anyone! I wish to see him first bankrupted and driven out of decent society! Then I wish for him to be horribly disfigured! And crippled! And finally, when the world has shunned him, when he is penniless and alone, when the mere sight of him disgusts everyone around him, then and only then do I wish for him to die a most painful death! Oh, James Cato, you will rue the day that you crossed me!"

"James Cato?" said Mr Mellark, setting down his wine glass and looking over at Mr Crane. The latter's eyes were darting around the room, as if searching for a means to escape.

"Yes. Make him pay for what he has done to me!"

Mr Mellark kept his eye on Mr Crane for a moment longer, before turning to Mrs Clove. "Madam, I am sorry," he said at last, "but you are the victim of a terrible scheme. Until tonight I had not heard of you, and had you contacted me directly, I would have told you that I am not in the business of revenge."

"But I have already paid you for your services!" cried Mrs Clove. "This is criminal."

"I agree. Entirely criminal. But I am not the perpetrator of these crimes. That blame lies squarely upon the shoulders of Mr Crane here. He has lied to you. He has taken your money and promised you my services, which I cannot offer."

Mrs Clove's eyes narrowed in fury. "You never had any intention of helping me? And you allowed me to talk as if you would? What kind of man are you?"

Mr Mellark stood up and took a deep breath before he spoke. "The kind of man, madam, that would have been willing to help you despite this worm—" he indicated Mr Crane, "—and his deception. I wanted to hear what he had promised you, and would have been willing to offer my services without payment as a gesture of goodwill, were your requests not so morally repugnant. I suggest you do as your father wishes. Return to him, and try to live a good life, for I cannot help you."

Mrs Clove reacted violently, picking up a nearby vase of hot-house flowers and hurling it forcefully towards a wall. Other inanimate objects became the target of her ire, and the mirror by which Mr Mellark had entered the room soon became smashed as well, meaning that he was forced to leave via the front door. He had every mind to call Mr Crane out for his treacherous deeds, but before he could even open his mouth, the wretched villain ran as fast as he could, and soon slipped beyond Mr Mellark's reach.

Looking at his surroundings, Mr Mellark realised that he had no idea where he was. After wandering the streets, he came across a local alehouse. The proprietor must have thought him a very clear dullard when Mr Mellark asked him precisely where he was. The incredulous bar owner informed Mr Mellark that they were currently in Highgate. He was approximately five miles from his Soho home. He checked his watch. It was nearing midnight; he had left his friends back at The Hob over four hours previously. How much time had he spent on those strange and twisting pathways?

At first he considered finding a carriage-driver to take him home, but the night was clear and pleasant, and he felt that the walk might help him to order his own thoughts. The ever-watchful moon and stars provided more than enough light for Mr Mellark to find his path home.

His mind was reeling from everything that had happened. The revelation of Crane's betrayal came as little surprise, for Mr Mellark had never trusted that man, but the extent to which he had played himself and Mr Heavensbee for fools… If rumours started to spread about the kind of services that Crane had been offering on their behalf, then Mr Mellark was unsure if their reputations for being honest men would ever truly recover.

Then there was the confirmation of the existence of Faerie, just out of sight of the everyday world, but present nonetheless. After visiting the King, Heavensbee had questioned Mr Mellark about whether anything eventful had happened, and he, Mr Mellark, had simply told Heavensbee that he had been unable to help the King at all. Heavensbee had nodded and confirmed that he suspected as much. Mr Mellark failed to tell his tutor that there had been a strong magic at work that day, one that he had very nearly failed to defeat. He had suspected a fairy to be behind the deception, and could not even answer to himself why he had kept the story secret from his tutor.

When Heavensbee had told him that all mirrors were connected, Mr Mellark had imagined that he would simply step through one and out through another. He had never dreamed of the vast land that lay just out of sight. It put everything that he and Heavensbee had ever done to shame. They had barely begun to scratch the surface of what was possible with magic. And within that incredible country, Mr Mellark felt certain, was the key to healing Miss Everdeen.

Mr Mellark felt almost giddy at the prospect. Perhaps his theory was indeed correct—that a fairy was responsible for her strange symptoms. Here was the evidence that Faerie was much closer to them than they suspected, and he had seen with his own eyes how much power was housed in that strange land. If a fairy wished to remain hidden, then of course Heavensbee's spell to reveal a fairy presence would not work! But if they could somehow try to tap that power themselves… Mr Mellark smiled wistfully to himself as he imagined lifting Miss Everdeen from her melancholy, and as Mr Everdeen gave his blessings to their union.

But before that dream could be made reality, he would have to return to that great and vast land. He could understand why Heavensbee would be frightened of such a place, why he would spend so much time decrying Faerie as an evil, wicked place. Poor, fussy Heavensbee who craved nothing more than home comforts, who was distressed at having to cross to the other side of London for a commission—of course such a place would frighten him! Mr Mellark regarded his tutor with a new level of understanding. But he had to make Heavensbee see how much they could learn from the world beyond the mirror. First thing in the morning, he would go directly to Heavensbee, tell him of his adventures…

As he finally reached Soho Square, Mr Mellark glanced at his pocket watch. It was nearing two o'clock, and Mr Mellark wondered if Gale were around to prepare him a poached egg or two, for he had not eaten in many an hour. He was most grateful that when he entered his home, his servant was awake, dressed and ready to greet him. However, Mr Mellark was not prepared for the entourage that awaited him in his drawing room.

Mr Odair stood by an ornate, gold-framed mirror, gazing into its depths, his reflected look of worry staring back.

Captain Mellark and Major Boggs sat at a desk in the middle of the room, playing cards. From the look of the piles of money next to each man, the Captain was having more luck by far.

But the most surprising visitor was Mr Heavensbee, who sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, worrying at the stubs of his fingernails.

As Mr Mellark stepped into the room, he could see Mr Odair's eyes widen in the reflection, before his dearest friend turned on the spot. "You have returned!" he said, and the relief in his voice was palpable.

The two gentlemen in the centre of the room looked up and Captain Mellark grinned widely. "Well, little brother, you certainly have had everyone worried. Where have you been?"

"Highgate," responded Mr Mellark. "There I found a certain duplicitous Mr Crane."

"Crane?" said Mr Heavensbee. "I have been informed of his treachery. Where is he now? He must be arrested! He cannot be allowed to get away with stealing from us! From me!"

"And I am sure he will be caught," sighed Mr Mellark, suddenly feeling terribly exhausted.

"So, tell us," grinned Captain Mellark. "What lies on the other side of the mirror?"

Mr Mellark paused for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts. How to describe the other world he had witnessed! It was almost an impossibility! He opened his arms wide in a gesture of encompassment, then opened and closed his mouth as words left him. "It is magnificent!" he said at long last. "If only you could see! At first I found myself within a cavernous stone hall, and paths led off in every direction, as far as the eye could see. I saw great lakes, mountains, rivers, forests… " He turned to Mr Heavensbee and looked his tutor in the eye. "And sir, everywhere I went, I saw him. Paintings, sculptures, statues, engravings… all showing the same man that you and I have denied all these years. The Raven King."

Heavensbee stood up faster than anyone had ever seen him move. "You found the King's Roads?" he said, his eyes widening in alarm.

Mr Mellark's heart beat a little faster at his tutor's words. Once upon a time there had been many roads leading from England to Faerie, and any unwitting traveller could stumble across them and lose themselves. Occasionally people had been known to emerge from them, wearing outdated clothes, unsure of what year it was. These roads, now all blocked or lost, and been there since time immemorial, but the King's Roads… these had been built by the Raven King himself, and were only open to exceptionally gifted magicians. Mr Mellark allowed himself a small, self-satisfied smile as his achievements seemed even greater than before.

Mr Mellark was shaken from his reverie by Mr Heavensbee's harsh words. "It was a dangerous folly to do as you did. You should have come to me. At least you have friends with more sense," he said, indicating Mr Odair with a nod of his head.

Mr Mellark shot a glare at Mr Odair, who at least had the good grace to look apologetic, before he returned his attention to his tutor. "I was perfectly safe," he said.

"You cannot possibly know that!" retorted Mr Heavensbee.

"I am here now, what more evidence do you require?"

Mr Heavensbee shook his head, and spoke more to himself than the room at large. "We cannot allow this excursion to be made public, if the general public find out—"

"Then what, precisely?" snapped Mr Mellark. "No one will understand what it is I have done. How can they, when you won't allow _anyone_ else to have access to any magical knowledge?"

"I do all I can to protect them from danger!"

"Ignorance is, in itself, dangerous."

"Oh, so would you prefer that we re-open all the roads that lead to Faerie, to allow those wicked beings to cross over into our realm, where they might wreak all kinds of havoc, kidnapping and harming good, honest Christians? You would prefer to allow people to summon them into their own homes, exposing themselves to all kinds of mischief? You perceive that to be less dangerous than ignorance?"

"Sir, you are twisting my words and meaning."

The two magicians stared at each other in silence. The tension in the room was palpable, and was broken by Major Boggs. "Peeta," he said in a measured voice, "if life in the army has taught me one thing, it has been to have patience. To gain a full understanding of a situation before acting. Have you read every single book on the subject of these roads, where they lead, and what potential harm could befall any travellers along them?"

Mr Mellark snorted, and kept his eyes firmly on his tutor. "No," he said. "I have not."

Mr Heavensbee looked away from his pupil, looking abashed.

"Then," continued Major Boggs, "would it not be more prudent to continue to learn from books until you have exhausted every angle they can offer you? And then you can be armed with the knowledge that will keep you safe on these strange pathways, should you feel the need to return."

Mr Mellark looked around the room at the assembled gentlemen, repressing the urge to shout at each of them. Could none of them see what greatness he had achieved tonight? Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be alone, and knew that unless he agreed to their terms, he would not be left to his own thoughts. "Fine," he said at last. "Now, sirs, I hope you won't think me rude, but it is very late. If you wish to stay here, I am sure Gale will find a way to accommodate you, but for my part I wish to go to bed. Goodnight, sirs." He offered the room a short, sharp bow and turned on his heels.

"I will see you in the morning, at the usual time," said Heavensbee, as he walked past, a scowl on his face.

Mr Mellark offered him a curt nod, but gave no other response. He was just about to head up stairs when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mr Mellark turned and was face to face with Mr Odair. "I am sorry for any trouble I have caused you," he said. "When you stepped into the mirror, the strange world beyond instantly vanished, and the normal reflection returned. And when you did not return from the mirror, none of us knew what to do. It seemed as though fetching Heavensbee was our only option." Mr Odair shook his head, and looked at the ground. "I wish I had never suggested you attempt that magic."

"Why?" said Mr Mellark, unable to contain his frustration. "Surely you can see that I am perfectly fine! Do you not realise what I achieved tonight?"

"Peeta," said Mr Odair, looking straight up, and Mr Mellark was surprised to see the fear in his friend's eyes. "There are, perhaps, some things that were not meant to be known or seen by humans. The land you stepped into, the land we all saw in the mirror… It is evil, I am certain of it. I know you will not listen to what Heavensbee asks of you, and so I am asking you instead. Please, do not return to that land, not until you can prove to me beyond all reasonable doubt that no being in there wishes you harm."

Mr Odair seemed so sincere in his request, that Mr Mellark could not ignore it. "I promise," he said. "But know this; I _will_ dedicate my every hour to proving you wrong."

A smile flashed across Mr Odair's face. "I would not expect anything less," he said.

\---------------

Mr Mellark lay in bed for hours, entirely unable to sleep. His mind was racing with everything he had seen, and everything he had promised. He was utterly convinced that somewhere within the world he had witnessed would be the key to curing Miss Everdeen's melancholy. He'd found so little within books about curing diseases of the mind, but while part of the problem was that the Golden Age magicians didn't view madness as a curse, the other part was that they themselves recorded very little in writing. Their magical knowledge was passed on directly, tutor to pupil, and thus so much was lost when magic started to disappear. Perhaps there were cures in abundance within the land of Faerie?

But he could not break his promise to Mr Odair. If only there was someone else who could teach him, someone whom he could freely ask questions. Someone who had actual experience of the land beyond the mirror…

And then the answer hit him. The Golden Age magicians had never learned from books. They had learned magic direct from its source. From the fairies themselves. And if he was unable to travel there to learn from them, well, he would have to bring one to him.

He smiled to himself as a plan began to formulate in his mind. And the first step would be to entirely sever ties with his tutor.

Mr Mellark did not turn up to Mr Heavensbee's house the following day. Instead, he sat at his desk, and penned an article, which he would send anonymously to The Times. He smiled tightly to himself as he re-read the article. Soon he would have to answer to no other man.


	13. Chapter 13

_THE CONTRADICTORY NATURE OF THE MODERN MAGICIAN_

_We surely all recall the stories from our youths of the adventures of John USKGLASS, known most commonly by his moniker the Raven King. He is as much a part of our nation's great history as William SHAKESPEARE, as Arthur PENDRAGON, as the founding of the great monument at Stonehenge._

_In summary, history books tell us of the great company of fairies that appeared in the North of England one winter's night in late 1110—a beautiful, pale-skinned and raven-haired boy, barely older than fourteen, at their helm. We know that many battles took place, and that the English lost every single one, until the fairy host held Newcastle, Durham, Carlisle, Lancaster and York. Many, many lives were lost, and at last King Henry I rode forth to meet with this strange boy and his bloodthirsty company. After a great deal of tense negotiation, USKGLASS was granted the Northern half of England to rule as his own. And under his rule, magic flourished and England left the Dark Ages behind._

_From a modern perspective we may find some of his actions strange and unnatural. For example, the stories of the living forests he created that once surrounded Newcastle, that were said to devour any soul that attempted to pass through uninvited. But we must accept that the Raven King was a medieval ruler living in medieval times. He did what he saw fit to protect his people, and not out of spite or bloodlust._

_No one knows why after an unbroken three-hundred year rule the Raven King departed England. But it is a fact that magic has been in steady decline ever since, until the emergence of the two magicians HEAVENSBEE and MELLARK._

_For years now, HEAVENSBEE and MELLARK have expounded upon us the notion that all fairies are evil, and that despite his originally human origins, the Raven King is the worst of them all. They have shown us that fairies are not actually necessary to the practise of respectable, modern magic. Part of this theory comes from the fact that some magic did exist in these fair isles before John USKGLASS's fairy company appeared. And while this is indeed true, there was no tradition of magic before USKGLASS's rule. It was he that shaped raw magic into the practical and useable tool it is today. HEAVENSBEE and MELLARK speak about the Raven King's bloody deeds as if to discredit him, while failing to take into account any form of historical context, while failing to acknowledge every last miraculous deed he performed that enables them to practise their own livelihoods today. In short, they wish to eradicate every trace of the Raven King and his fairy company from modern magic. But if they succeed in such a deed, what then? If they succeed in wiping out the memory of the Raven King, what do they suppose they will be left holding? Nothing but empty air. After all, it is the Raven King's magic that they do._

The article may have been written and published anonymously, but somehow everyone in London still managed to guess that the author was Mr Mellark.

It certainly had been an embarrassing couple of weeks for modern magic. Despite Mr Heavensbee's best efforts to keep Crane's deception private, it became the talk of the town almost overnight. And it turned out that several London businesses and money lenders suddenly became very worried about Mr Crane's financial status. Debts from years ago, debts that Mr Crane had assumed were forgotten about, were called in, and of course Mr Crane had no money with which to pay them. Barely eight days after his treachery was discovered, Mr Crane was arrested for debt and imprisoned at The King's Bench.

While Mr Heavensbee and Mr Mellark had both been very vocal that neither of them had been involved in Mr Crane's devious money-making schemes—and after all, no magic had actually been performed—they had not quite been able to quash the rumours that they had been at the heart of it all. Satirical comics appeared in some of the more liberal papers. One of the most popular ones showed two ladies meeting in a park, one of them walking a small dog. _"Lo! What a beautiful pug!"_ exclaimed the caption. " _Yes. I paid Messrs Heavensbee and Mellark one hundred guineas to make my husband obedient and compliant, and this is the result!_ "

And then with the publication of Mr Mellark's article, many citizens believed the younger magician must have gone mad. For him to so publically decry his own profession, for him to decry _himself_ …There seemed no other explanation.

A week after the article had been published, Mr Mellark had still not been to see Mr Heavensbee. He had first received a summons the very same afternoon that the article had been published, which had been duly ignored, as had each subsequent summons. He felt cowardly and terrible for not going to confront his tutor, but at the same time could not face the inevitable fallout from his article.

However, after receiving a request for the seventh consecutive day, Mr Mellark could no longer ignore the dreadful burden of guilt he carried with him. He had Gale dress him in his best clothes and fetch him a carriage to take him to Heavensbee at last.

As Mr Mellark approached the door to Heavensbee's apartments, he began to feel quite ill. Time seemed to slow down as he reached for the iron doorknocker, slamming it three times. When Haymitch finally opened the door, Mr Mellark found himself incapable of speech.

"I've been wondering how long it would take you to come here," said Haymitch.

Mr Mellark merely nodded in response, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise.

Haymitch raised an eyebrow at Mr Mellark's uncharacteristic silence. "Follow me then," he said, smirking as he walked past.

It was such a familiar path that led from Heavensbee's front door to his study, but Mr Mellark felt as if he were walking it for the very first time, as if he were a stranger in this house that had almost become a second home to him.

In a dream-like trance, Mr Mellark entered Heavensbee's study. Mr Heavensbee was bent over his desk, his quill flying across a sheath of paper as he made notes. As soon as Mr Mellark entered, Heavensbee looked up and stopped writing. He stood up and his skin took on a grey pallor. Turning to his servant, he said in a flat tone, "Leave us."

As Haymitch backed out of the room, Mr Mellark swallowed nervously. He opened his mouth, hoping that he would be able to improvise his own defence, but before he could speak, Heavensbee turned from him, pouring himself a brandy. Mr Mellark could not help but notice how much Heavensbee's hands were shaking. "You think I am angry with you," said Mr Heavensbee quietly.

Mr Mellark stumbled over his words. He had indeed expected to be on the receiving end of Heavensbee's wrath. He was not prepared to see the broken man before him.

"You think, perhaps, that I do not understand why you wrote that article? That I disagree with you? That I have not felt that same _yearning_ , that same _longing_ for the magic our forebears performed?"

"I—"

"Of course it is the Raven King's magic that we perform! Of course it is! But why do you think I tried to restrict your learning? I did not wish to see you waste your youth in folly as I did mine! So many years I spent trying to recreate those golden days of magic, and for what? A man who has utterly abandoned us! When the Raven King left England he stole with him the best part of magic. He does not care for us! Why, in my youthful arrogance I even tried to summon him once! I believed that I would be able to persuade him to return. I am only thankful that my skills then were not as honed as they are now. I can only imagine what would have happened to me had I succeeded. A mere boy in comparison, summoning a king! He would have crushed me!"

Mr Heavensbee sat down heavily on the chaise longue, and pinched the bridge of his nose. His next words seemed to be directed almost at himself, rather than at Mr Mellark. "I should have been more open and honest with you from the very beginning," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Humans are a strange and fickle species, with a tendency towards self-destruction, and I'm afraid to say that we magicians are even more so. History is littered with magicians who have been the authors of their own destruction, and each and every one of them began their path of self-annihilation thanks to an obsession with fairy magic."

"Then maybe I can be the one to change that pattern," said Mr Mellark. "If only you had seen what I have seen, sir! The magic you and I do, all we have done… mere parlour tricks to what could be possible! The Raven King—"

"Damn his name!" interrupted Mr Heavensbee, and Mr Mellark was shocked to see that Heavensbee's eyes were shining. "And damn this fascination with him! Why can you not be satisfied with what we already know is possible? What we know is safe?"

Mr Mellark hesitated before answering. "How can we ever progress forward if we only stick to what we know?" he said. "And how can I know what is and isn't possible when you refuse to share with me?"

Mr Heavensbee sat with his head in his hands. His countenance was as pale as the winter sky. "You are right," he said softly. "I see that now. More mistakes. More arrogance." He took a deep breath and looked up. "That changes now."

"Sir?"

"I shall no longer restrict your learning. As your tutor, I shall…" He swallowed heavily before continuing to talk. "I shall endeavour to be far more open with you. To…help you find new areas of study…and…" Mr Heavensbee's eyes darted around the room as he stumbled over his words.

Mr Mellark hesitated once again. He had come to Hanover Square hoping for his tutor to show nothing but anger, so that he might have the perfect reason to break away. The last thing he had expected was to see Mr Heavensbee so vulnerable.

"Sir," Mr Mellark began slowly, "ever since returning from the Peninsula, I have felt wrong in calling you my tutor. I feel as though I have learned more on my own in my time abroad than I have under your direction and—"

"Then you shall no longer be known as my pupil. You shall be my equal. We shall…." Mr Heavensbee looked almost shocked at the words leaving his lips, "We shall depart London tonight. I will show you my Library at Northolt. I will keep nothing from you. But do not turn against me. Please."

For a moment Mr Mellark felt his resolve lessen. The promise of all that knowledge, previously hidden from him… But he had made his decision, and he would stick with it, no matter what. "I am sorry, sir. I believe this is where our partnership ends."

Heavensbee looked close to tears. "Don't do this," he said quietly.

"Come, sir," said Mr Mellark. "I am sure you will find someone to take my place. There are hundreds of young men who wish to learn magic. You will find someone far more agreeable than I."

"Please. Don't do this," repeated Mr Heavensbee.

"I thank you for all of the knowledge you have imparted to me. Let us at least depart as friends," he said, holding his hand out towards his former tutor. Heavensbee looked at it for a moment, almost as if confused by the gesture. After a few seconds hesitation, the older man stood up, and he appeared far more aged than in reality. Mr Heavensbee took Mr Mellark's hand in his own and shook it, only letting go with apparent reluctance. Mr Mellark bowed, and left the study in Hanover Square, possibly for the last time ever.

***************************

Miss Everdeen's severe annoyance that Mr Mellark had not visited her in Panem for almost three weeks evaporated almost the instant that she saw him. The concern on his face as he crossed the crowded dance hall towards her melted the ice that had been crystalizing around her heart.

"I am so sorry for my extended absence," he whispered into her ear as he held her tightly.

She closed her eyes and sighed into his embrace as the warmth of his arms banished her fears and nightmares, if only momentarily.

Something in the way he held her changed. His arms seemed to stiffen, his breathing quickened, and he swallowed heavily.

"What is wrong?" she asked him.

"I came so close to finding you," he said to her. "I was here. I was in Faerie. I believe I could even see this very land in the distance."

"But that is wonderful!" she said, her head feeling giddy from such good news. She beamed up at him, her smile freezing on her face. His words did not seem to match his tone, nor the way he was acting, and his eyes were unfocused and glazed. "You will surely be able to find me soon?" she said as her heart began to pound uncomfortably.

"But I promised a dear friend that I would not return," he said, holding her ever tighter. "The path I took to come here is closed to me for the foreseeable future."

She struggled against his grip, pushing hard on his chest. "And what about me? What about your promise to me?"

"I know," he said, but he would not let go.

"You promised me."

"I know," he answered, holding her ever tighter.

She quietly wept into his chest, her breath hitching as he pressed his lips onto the top of her head. Her initial anger had made the flames of her dress rise higher, threatening to consume her, but as Mr Mellark held and soothed her, her ire began to dissipate.

"I will find a way," he whispered to her between kisses. "I have already begun to conduct my own researches into fairies. I'll find a different path back here, one that won't break the promise I have made. Have hope."

Her eyes fell closed and she sighed into him. His words always held such power and she could not help but feel the spark of hope within her reignite.

As they held each other, the temperature dropped without warning. Their breath hung in the air in front of them. Mr Mellark loosened his hold on Miss Everdeen so that he might gaze at the cloud of fog and at the small ice crystals forming within it, a look of confusion upon his handsome face. However, Miss Everdeen understood the implications almost immediately, and her eyes widened fearfully.

"Run," she whispered to him.

But it was too late. Behind Mr Mellark's shoulder, Miss Everdeen could see the hated face of the gentleman with snow-white hair. His cold, dead eyes and puffy red lips were twisted in absolute fury, and the stench of blood and roses became overpowering as he loomed ever closer.

The gentleman clapped a hand hard on Mr Mellark's shoulder, spinning him around as if he were merely a rag doll. "You are trespassing on my land, you are cavorting with one of my favourite escorts, and you are wearing stolen feathers belonging to me! How did you come to be here? Answer me before I destroy you, magician!"

Miss Everdeen had to admire Mr Mellark's foolhardy bravery and quick tongue, for he answered almost immediately. "If we are discussing stolen property, sir, then might I remind you that this lady does not belong to you. She is a free citizen of the Great British Empire, and I am come to return her to her true home."

The gentleman's features became even more inhuman as his rage consumed him. He took a bold step towards Mr Mellark, and Miss Everdeen threw herself in front of him. "Leave him alone!" she cried. "I beg you, leave him alone!"

Cinna had been beside the gentleman, and he spoke as well. "Pray listen to Miss Everdeen, sir. Compared to you and your kind he is but a child. And, like a child, he knows no better than to offer you complete deference."

The gentleman stared hard at Mr Mellark. "You are correct, Cinna. He is but a child. And children must be punished for their wrongdoings." He raised his fist, which had become enshrouded in hard, jagged ice.

"Wait!" cried Cinna. "You cannot destroy a child for ignorance!"

The gentleman hesitated for just a moment as he appeared to consider Cinna's words. He lowered his fist, and the ice surrounding him began to melt, causing a steady patter of drips to hit the marble floor. "How did you come to be here, magician?" he hissed, more to himself than to anyone else. The gentleman's eyes narrowed, boring into Mr Mellark, who seemed frozen to the spot. After a few moments, the gentleman's eyes widened in triumph. "Would you look at this!" he exclaimed. "This is a rare thing indeed!"

He waved his hand through the air, and as he did so, Miss Everdeen noticed that a golden strand of gossamer appeared in front of her. It seemed to come straight out of her chest, and snaked its way through the air, until it reached Mr Mellark. The magician seemed likewise enthralled by the golden thread. He ran his fingers through it, and the thread entwined itself around his fingers, but never broke.

"You two have a rare connection indeed," said the gentleman. "I believe it is time that we put an end to this." The gentleman reached into an inner pocket of his red-velvet coat, and withdrew a lethal-looking knife. The thing appeared ancient and blood-stained, and seemed to be hewn from bone rather than forged from metal. He grabbed at the strand of gossamer and before Miss Everdeen was able to open her mouth to protest, he severed their connection.

Pain such as she had never known ran through her heart. A cold emptiness filled her lungs as she clutched at her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Mr Mellark had fallen to his knees and was similarly clutching at his chest. She tried to crawl towards him, but the gentleman stood before him. "There will be no more night-time escapades here, magician. She belongs to me. You will not remember this moment. Now, be gone."

A freezing wind suddenly blew through the great dance hall. It brought with it snow and ice, and it enveloped a wide-eyed and fearful Mr Mellark within its bitter clutches. Miss Everdeen screamed at the top of her lungs, and immediately the wind died, although Mr Mellark was nowhere to be seen. Tears burned her face, and the flames of her dress engulfed her. "Where is he?" she cried. "What have you done to him?"

The gentleman reached a frozen hand behind Miss Everdeen's neck and held her still. "You are lucky, Miss Everdeen, that my deal was with the other magician and not with either you or your soul-mate. I have closed the path that unexpectedly connected him to you. And be assured that I am not yet finished with him either." He threw her to the ground, and through the tears that racked her body, she heard the gentleman say, "Cinna, it would appear that the search for your name must once again be placed on hold. I have an idea to punish the magician even further."

*******************************

Mr Mellark awoke with a start. He had been having a terrible dream, although he could not remember the details, only the hollow feeling that he had been left with. A dull ache had spread out across his chest, as if he had been thumped repeatedly, and he shook with unseasonal cold.

Mr Mellark slowly sat up in bed, gently rubbing the ache in his chest. He felt almost overcome with a strange desire to cry. He tried to shake away the unwanted feeling, but was left feeling colder than ever.

He lay back down in bed shivering, for what felt like hours, unable to go back to sleep due to a combination of the strange cold and the unwanted, terrible suffocating pressure on his lungs and heart. Eventually a ray of sunlight penetrated a crack in the curtains, lighting up the motes of dust in his room, making them look like tiny fireflies dancing to an unheard song.

The sight was entrancing, hypnotising, and Mr Mellark felt the dull ache slowly begin to lessen as he lay on his side watching the never-ending dance.

He was taken by surprise when Gale entered his room carrying a breakfast tray, along with a small piece of paper.

"Mr Flickerman sends his regards," said Gale, as Mr Mellark reached directly for the scrap of paper.

A mere two sentences were hastily scrawled, ink blotches everywhere: _I have something that may be of interest to you! I shall keep it safe for you until the end of the day._

Flickerman's on Bond Street was a well-established bookseller, and its proprietor, Caesar Flickerman, was a well-liked and outgoing gentleman. Mr Mellark had always gotten along very well with the rather flamboyant man, and he always preferred to contact Mr Mellark over Mr Heavensbee when any books about magic passed through his hands.

A sly smile crossed Mr Mellark's face, pushing the strange, nameless anxiety he had been feeling all morning from his mind. He ate quickly and dressed hurriedly, asking Gale to find him a carriage to take him directly to Bond Street.

"I am just sorry that this is not as in-depth as some of the other works that exist," said Mr Flickerman as he handed the book over, pulling a mock-sad face.

Mr Mellark grinned as he read the title: _A Child's History of the Raven King_. A book aimed at children was precisely the type of book that Heavensbee would ignore as trivial, and therefore it was entirely precious to Mr Mellark.

"This is wonderful, thank you, sir. How much do I owe you?"

"Three and six-pence, my dear fellow."

Mr Mellark handed over the money and exited the shop, while Gale carried Mr Mellark's purchase. Almost as soon as they left Flickerman's premises, Mr Mellark stopped in his tracks. Something rather unusual had caught his eye.

"Gale," he said, after a moment's consideration. "Do you see anything out of the ordinary on this street?"

Gale glanced up and down the road, and shook his head. "You'll have to be more specific."

Mr Mellark cocked his slightly to one side, and glanced up at the sky. Pointing to a doorway directly across the street from them he said, "Something there is not quite right."

Gale frowned for a moment, looked to the sky, then returned his gaze to the doorway. "That shadow," he said. "It should not be there at all."

"Indeed. And even if the sun were in the correct place to cast it, it would be far too dark to be natural." Mr Mellark smiled to himself. "Haymitch!" he called out. "You can stop trying to hide from me."

The shadow twisted itself into the shape of a man and stepped out of the doorway. "How did you know it was me?" said Haymitch.

"I didn't know for certain. Merely a hunch. I had a feeling Mr Heavensbee could not bear to not know what I was up to. Here. I have nothing to hide." Mr Mellark took the recently purchased book from Gale and handed it to Haymitch.

Haymitch read the title and raised an eyebrow. "A little old for children's stories, are we not?" he said as he handed the book back.

"Beggars cannot be choosers. And I am sure I will find it most enlightening."

"You understand that I will have to tell my master what you've been buying?"

"Please do!" said Mr Mellark. "And you may also tell him that I mean to attempt to summon a fairy of my own at some point. As I said, I have nothing to hide, Haymitch. I am an open book." Half a smile tugged at the corners of Mr Mellark's mouth. "Unlike you, Haymitch. Does your master know that you have been practising magic? I cannot imagine he would be too happy to see you turn yourself into a shadow."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

Mr Mellark's smile widened. "I see. And where did you learn such a trick?"

Haymitch shrugged as a slight smirk passed over his face. "I have been in Heavensbee's employ for well over twenty years. I'd have to be a very dull fellow indeed to not pick up a thing or two."

"Indeed," said Mr Mellark. He paused momentarily, running a hand over the back of his neck, and considered his next words very carefully. "Haymitch, why don't you come and work with me instead? I can pay you generously, and you would not have to keep any of your own studies secret. And I am sure some of that knowledge you have picked up would come in very handy to me."

"I am sure it would," agreed Haymitch. "But I must decline. Without you to keep him in check, I fear that he will continue to be more and more influenced by a certain Mr Cato. I'd feel more comfortable knowing that I provide some kind of counter-balance to that influence."

Mr Mellark nodded a little sadly. "If you ever change your mind—"

"Then I shall know where to find you. Thank you for the offer, sir." He paused a moment before continuing. "Are you sure you wish for me to tell Heavensbee _everything_ you have told me?"

"Absolutely, Haymitch. Indeed, if you wish you may also tell him of my intention to write my own book at some point in the future. I shall be only too happy to share my knowledge with anyone who wishes to learn more."

"You are likely to send him to an early grave," replied Haymitch.

"Oh, I doubt that," grinned Mr Mellark. "He will no doubt wish to stay alive to put a stop to my efforts. I believe this may even give him a new lease on life!"

Haymitch bowed his head briefly towards the magician before turning on his heel and heading in the direction of Hanover Square. Mr Mellark watched him disappear into a crowd of people then excitedly returned his attention to his newly purchased book. It may not be much, but it was a very welcome start to his studies.

*****************************

It did not take long for Mr Mellark's enthusiasm to wane. There was very little within the pages of _A Child's History of the Raven King_ that Mr Mellark did not already know or could have guessed at, and yet it was still the only book he had been able to purchase since leaving Heavensbee.

He had once again taken to trying to invent his own spells in order to summon a fairy. Nothing seemed to have worked, although he was certain that after attempting one of the spells, he could distinctly smell a strange mixture of blood and roses.

Pacing up and down in his study, re-reading the same notes for the hundredth time, Mr Mellark only ceased his pacing when Gale announced the arrival of Mr Odair. Mr Mellark welcomed the distraction and collapsed in an exhausted heap in his armchair.

"How goes the struggle?" asked Mr Odair, looking with great amusement at the piles of notes and papers haphazardly lying around.

"Frustrating to say the least!" said Mr Mellark. "I have wondered on more than one occasion if I was not too hasty to dismiss Heavensbee's offer. I feel no closer to my goal now than I did weeks ago. Perhaps it is folly to try to study fairies when no real literature exists."

"Well," said Mr Odair, "you may be displeasing Heavensbee and dividing the nation's opinion regarding magic, but I know of at least one person who supports you fully."

"And who might that be?"

"The gentleman with snow-white hair."

Mr Mellark regarded Mr Odair blankly for a few seconds. "Who?" he asked.

"The gentleman with snow-white hair," repeated Mr Odair. "The one who often stays with the Everdeens. When my dear Annie visits Miss Everdeen, I often see him there."

Mr Mellark raked his memory for any recollections of such a person, but found nothing. "Who is this gentleman?" he asked.

"You must know him!" said Mr Odair. "He certainly knows you! He said he has watched your progression as a magician closely, and always felt saddened by your refusal to acknowledge fairies." Mr Odair chuckled to himself. "He is a strange, eccentric fellow, typical, if I might say, of the old aristocracy. I assumed he must have been a theoretical magician himself, before Heavensbee disbanded all the old districts."

"Who is this gentleman?" repeated Mr Mellark with great interest. If this gentleman was indeed a former theoretical magician, there was a good chance that he might have a book or two that could be of assistance. He quickly searched around for a blank piece of paper. Finding none, he dipped a quill into an ink pot and made a quick note on the wallpaper. "What is his name?"

Mr Odair opened his mouth to speak, then immediately closed it again. "Isn't that the strangest thing?" he half whispered to himself. "Now that I come to think of it, I cannot recall him ever telling me his name."

Mr Mellark paused, his quill halfway to the wall, and looked at his friend incredulously. "You cannot remember his name?"

"No," replied Mr Odair. "It is more than that. I do not believe he has ever told me. And I do not believe that I have ever asked."

"You have never asked him his name?"

Mr Odair appeared suddenly tired and disturbed by this realisation. "I have had so many conversations with him. How is it possible that such a formality has never been observed?"

"If, as you suspect, he is indeed a member of the old aristocracy, he may have assumed you already knew of him," said Mr Mellark, knowing full well that this would still be a terrible breach of decorum, but wishing to comfort his friend nonetheless.

"Perhaps," agreed Mr Odair, a frown creasing his features.

"Precisely," said Mr Mellark. He observed Mr Odair's worried face for a little longer, when an idea came to him. "I wonder if perhaps we have been in the city for too long. I have been wondering if a break in the countryside may help my studies progress a little further. Perhaps you and Mrs Odair would care to join me at my home at Woodhay Manor for a while?"

"Yes," said Mr Odair, still frowning slightly. "Yes, perhaps that would be a good idea." He shook his head, and the look of concern was replaced with his usual, easy smile. "I believe the country air should do both Annie and I some good."

"Then we shall make arrangements immediately," replied Mr Mellark. His thoughts drifted to Miss Everdeen, and he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving her, but he assuaged his own conscience by convincing himself that a break would benefit his work as much for her as for himself. The thought drifted through his mind, just as the strange scent of blood and roses seemed to return.


	14. Chapter 14

Cinna looked at the unfamiliar surroundings. Once upon a time it would have been fascinating to him to see parts of the world that otherwise would have remained forever hidden. But now it was merely tiring. He longed to spend his days in one place, rather than being magically whisked off to the far corners of the globe without even a moment's notice.

His current surroundings, whilst unfamiliar, did not seem all that exotic. Indeed, the solid oak furniture, leaded windows, and the grey landscape beyond them were all decidedly English.

"Where are we?" asked Cinna.

"Woodhay Manor," replied the gentleman. "Although to describe this place as a 'manor' is stretching the truth a rather disgusting amount. In my book, it barely even passes as a 'shack.' More impudence that deserves punishment."

"This is the magician's home, yes?"

The gentleman laughed— a cold, humourless sound. "Yes. I am not surprised that he chooses to live in such a crude fashion."

Cinna had to bite his tongue. He was all too used to the gentleman idolising wealth, indolence, and opulence, and while Mr Mellark's country estate was modest in comparison, it could hardly be described as 'crude.'

He looked around. The place seemed empty and deserted, almost neglected, as if it had been devoid of occupants for a long time. "Why are we here?" asked Cinna.

The gentleman's thin lips stretched over his teeth in a leer that Cinna presumed was supposed to be a smile. "I wish to have a look around," he said. "I find that getting to know one's enemy is the key to stopping them."

Suddenly the gentleman's eyes widened and he rushed to the window, gazing at the landscape beyond. "I know this place," he whispered, closing his eyes.

A flicker of movement caught Cinna's eye. Strange things were happening. It appeared to him that two worlds occupied just the one space, and it was a terrifying, nauseating feeling. Ravens flew at him, their beating wings creating little disorientating eddies of wind, and their screeching voices shouting warnings at him in a strange language. But then the gentleman opened his eyes and England had returned.

"The boundary between Faerie and England is very close here. Very close indeed. It is little wonder the magician was able to steal powers from me if this is where he lived. Follow me."

All of a sudden, Cinna was stood upon a high cliff, facing out to a treacherous and turbulent grey sea. Far below them, the waves crashed against the rocks, and Cinna took a step back away from the edge, unnerved by the sight of the foamy depths.

"This is where we shall take him," said the gentleman. "Cinna, I need your help. Find me four rocks. One the size of a man's head. One the size of his heart. One the colour of love and friendship, and one the colour of misery and grief."

The instructions were confusing, and Cinna could not begin to guess at the gentleman's intentions. But Cinna was nothing if not diligent, and set about trying to find rocks and stones that matched the gentleman's descriptions.

It was hard, back-breaking work, and the gentleman was incredibly fastidious about the rocks that Cinna found. One was just a little too rounded, another far too jagged. One of them did not convey enough beauty, and another would be witless and make very poor conversation. These strange demands did little to help Cinna understand the nature of the gentleman's plans.

But after many hours, as the temperature dropped even further and the sun began to fade, the gentleman clapped his hands together in delight. "Yes, Cinna! You certainly have an eye for detail! This is perfect! And now, we shall make the magician pay."

The gentleman snapped his fingers, and Cinna was back home, in Mr Everdeen's house in Piccadilly. Miss Everdeen was sat in her usual spot by the window, and she turned towards him, sympathy and understanding in her tired, grey eyes. She clearly knew that he had been whisked away by the gentleman, but that he had been forced to help plot the magician's downfall, she could have no idea. He tried to whisper an apology to her, but the words that fell from his mouth were merely nonsense about a child who had found a violet opal inside a phoenix egg. He shook his head, and Miss Everdeen nodded sadly. She was silenced in the same way, after all. He dreaded to imagine how she would react to the news when they met in Panem, where he would be able to speak to her freely.

*********

After Mr Mellark had returned from the Peninsula to his London home, he had felt strangely out of place, as if he were invading the home of a complete stranger. That feeling was nothing compared to how it felt returning to Woodhay Manor which had, for all intents and purposes, been deserted for years, and which he had never truly felt comfortable in calling his home in the first place.

The house seemed too cold and empty; the brick walls harboured nothing but bad memories of his late mother's neglect, and worst of all, Mr Mellark could not put from his mind the distance that now spanned between Miss Everdeen and him. Before he left London, Mr Mellark had visited Mr Everdeen, in order to assure him that his residence in Sussex would not stop him working for the government as and when he was needed. Mr Mellark convinced himself that behind Miss Everdeen's overtly cold farewell to him was a hint of longing. Indeed, the idea that perhaps she would miss him while he was gone from London was keeping him sane, and at first helped him to maintain focus on his researches.

However, trying to research with a basic lack of material was proving as difficult as ever. The addition of entertaining his closest friends, Mr and Mrs Odair, in his home soon proved to be too great a distraction, and he found his researches falling by the wayside.

While Mr Odair had been brought up in the countryside and was far more used to the relaxed, easy-going nature of country balls, Mrs Odair was used to the formality of London society, although her own beauty and humble grace soon saw her becoming accustomed to the far less rigid aspects of country life. With Mr Mellark back in Sussex, invitations to balls, dinners, dances, and parties were arriving every other day, and indeed, it was not long until Mr and Mrs Odair's reputation for wit and charm saw them receiving their own invitations, and not merely attending as Mr Mellark's guests.

One such invitation was from Mr Cartwright, an old family friend of Mr Mellark's father. It had been clear for a very long time that Mr Cartwright had aspirations of marrying his daughter to one of the three Mellark sons, and when Captain Rye Mellark and Miss Delly Cartwright had finally announced their engagement, Mr Cartwright had held a dance in their honour, the scale and grandeur of which had rarely been seen outside of London.

The celebrations had gone on for days, and it was only the ever-present nagging guilt over Miss Everdeen that finally sent Mr Mellark home, so that he might try to continue his researches. Mr and Mrs Odair had returned with him, and their company certainly did not prove to be conducive to his studies. Eventually he had to apologise for his rudeness, but that it was necessary for him to lock himself in his room until he made some kind of progress.

Mr and Mrs Odair were more than happy to entertain themselves, going for long rides in the countryside, and walking along the clifftops at Beachy Head to look out to sea. Mr Mellark joined them for dinner every night, then retreated back upstairs to his study.

And so the three of them fell into a routine, until one evening Mr Odair complained of feeling rather poorly, and he did not attend dinner. The next morning, he stayed in bed, and so Mrs Odair entertained herself in the library all day, while Mr Mellark continued to study.

The wind howled outside, causing Mr Mellark to jump somewhat. He looked at his pocket watch. It was nearing 8 o'clock at night. His stomach growled as he realised that he had hardly eaten all day, and he felt himself flush with embarrassment at the fact that he had so wilfully neglected his duties as a host. He hoped that at least the servants had more sense and had fed his guests, and looked after the recumbent Mr Odair.

Suddenly, a loud commotion from downstairs caught his attention, and he recognised the sound of his brother's voice. He left the dark recess of his study for the first time that day to investigate the disturbance.

Captain Mellark was stood in the hallway of Woodhay Manor. His clothes were soaked through to the bone, his hair wild and windswept, but the most upsetting thing about his appearance was the panic clouding his face.

"Where is Finnick?" he called up to Mr Mellark.

"He is sleeping," said Mrs Odair, appearing from the doorway to the library. "Why? Whatever is the matter?"

"Are you sure?" said the Captain. "For I have seen a most distressing sight."

"Quite sure," she answered.

Gale took Captain Mellark's coat from him, and pressed a glass of brandy into his hands. "Thank you," said the Captain. "But I insist that he is checked upon. I was out riding, returning from a meeting with an old comrade of mine in Hastings, and saw a figure upon the cliffs at Beachy Head. I was most concerned about his proximity to the edge, and rode closer. As I approached I recognised the figure as that of Mr Odair."

"You are certain it was him?" said Mr Mellark.

"As certain as I am that I am now stood here before you!" he answered. "But when I rode even closer, the figure had vanished. At first I feared that they had slipped and fallen into the sea, but I could see no footprints on the clifftop, and could see no body below."

"Then you must have been mistaken."

"I was not mistaken!" said Captain Mellark. "I saw him as clearly as I see you all now!"

"This is easily rectified," said Gale. "I last checked on Mr Odair to bring him some broth and bread for supper not two hours ago. I shall go and check on him again now."

Mr Mellark, Captain Mellark, and Mrs Odair watched Gale retreat upstairs. He reappeared moments later, his usually swarthy complexion drained of colour. "Mr Odair is not in his room. His bed is empty and appears unslept in."

Mrs Odair turned to Mr Mellark. Panic distorted every one of her beautiful features. "Find him. Please."

He nodded and marched into his study, Mrs Odair, Captain Mellark, Gale, and some of the other servants following in his wake. "I need water," he called out to the room at large. "Fetch it from the brook. Running water will give us far more accurate results. And a large silver dish. Now."

Gale and the other servants turned on their heels and rushed to follow out their master's instructions. Mr Mellark took Mrs Odair's hands in his own and sat her down on the comfortable chaise-longue. "Annie, I will find him. Please, have faith."

She nodded and wiped her eyes on a silk handkerchief. Mr Mellark stood up and took a deep breath, focusing his thoughts. He had been working on spells of location ever since Wellington had first demanded it of him in Portugal, and in the last couple of months he was certain that he had finally perfected one.

Gale returned with the dish, and Thom with a large jug full of water. Focusing his thoughts once more, Mr Mellark slowly poured the water into the dish, careful not to spill a single drop. He tapped the surface of the water, and at his touch, glowing silver patterns of light began to dance across the mirrored surface.

He studied the patterns for a moment, memorising their configuration, then swept his hand across the surface of the water. Leaning in closer, he frowned. Something was wrong. The pattern of lights that should have represented Mr Odair was nowhere to be seen. He swept across the water again and looked once more. Still nothing. He repeated the action several more times. Nothing. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it in frustration.

"Gale," he said, turning away from the dish at last, picking up a candlestick and handing it to his servant. "Take this and hide it somewhere on my estate. Give me no clues as to where."

As soon as Gale returned, Peeta set to work. He tapped and swiped at the water, studying the shimmering patterns, and in less than a minute, he looked up at Gale. "It is in the stables, the second stall from the left, under a bale of hay, am I correct?"

Gale nodded his affirmation.

"Then the spell works, dammit," he said, frustration overcoming him once again.

"Then please, try it again. Find him, I beg you," said Mrs Odair, tears spilling from her eyes.

Moved by her plea, Mr Mellark attempted the spell once more. Mr Odair was nowhere in the vicinity of Woodhay Manor, nor of Beachy Head, where Captain Mellark claimed to have spotted him. He widened his search. Mr Odair did not appear to be anywhere in Sussex at all. In fact, he did not appear to be anywhere in any part of England.

Mr Mellark angrily tore his gaze from the shimmering silver lights, swearing under his breath at how the spell seemed to be mocking him. "This is pointless," he spat. "Gale, fetch me my coat and riding boots. Thom, ready Victor for me. I shall go out and search for him myself."

Within ten minutes, the four men—Mr Mellark, Captain Mellark, Gale and Thom—were in the saddle and riding out into the night. Mr Mellark conjured a glowing ball of light to travel ahead of them to aid their search, but within just a couple of hours, the weather had worsened to a degree where their search became impossible.

It was with a heavy heart that Mr Mellark returned to Woodhay Manor, to the expectant face of Mrs Odair. Despair clouded over her as he shook his head to her unasked question. She collapsed to the floor, weeping for the unknown state of her love. Mr Mellark rushed towards her, and knelt beside her, clutching her hands in his own. "Go up to bed," he said. "Rest yourself, and in the morning I shall send a message out to all able-bodied men nearby, and together we will find him."

Mrs Odair nodded and rose unsteadily to her feet, then inhaled sharply, her eyes widening as she looked beyond Mr Mellark into the hallway. "Finnick!" she cried, rushing forward, ready to embrace the man she loved.

Mr Odair was stood in the hallway, his hair plastered to his head with rain, his dripping clothes leaving a dark puddle of water around him. He slowly wrapped his arms around her, a politely perplexed look upon his face. He moved his arms slowly and stiffly, as if they had not moved in a very long time.

"Where have you been, dear heart?" she asked him.

He coughed once before answering, a dry, dusty sound that rattled his lungs. "I was watching the relentless sea-witch as she beat mercilessly at my earth-mother. I have rested beneath the young clouds, and watched the sky born anew for millennia. And one day I shall sleep again, undisturbed, with the rest of my kin."

Mrs Odair looked at her husband in confusion, at his ashen features, and ran a gentle hand across his cheek. "My love, you are frozen. You must sleep. And in the morning you shall feel yourself once again."

But the next day Mr Odair did not rise from his bed. He refused all food and complained of a terrible ache in his body. But he described the ache in such a peculiar manner, saying that he was 'decaying from his foundations all the way to his summit.'

A doctor was sent for to examine Mr Odair, but aside from a chill to his skin, there was nothing wrong with him, and all the doctor was able to prescribe was plenty of bed rest.

By the evening, however, Mr Odair's condition had taken a turn for the worse. The dry, dusty cough that he had produced when he first arrived home had not only returned, but had worsened. His normally bronzed skin had taken on a terrible, sickly grey pallor. Mrs Odair tried to insist he eat some broth to warm him, but he refused.

By the following morning, Mr Finnick Odair was dead.

*********

Sir Adam Cresta was a very influential gentleman amongst London society and when Mr Heavensbee heard that his son-in-law had died suddenly—a man who was very close friends with Mr Mellark, no less—then Mr Heavensbee saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself further with Sir Adam.

He had heard that the widow Mrs Odair had returned to her father's home, and he asked Haymitch to compose a letter to send to Sir Cresta, expressing his deep sorrow at Mr Odair's passing, and reminding Sir Cresta of his friendship, and that he was ever the great man's servant.

Haymitch sat alone at a writing desk and re-read the letter. For a moment, he considered waiting for Mr Heavensbee to return from a meeting with Prime Minister Coin before sending it, but there was little point. Heavensbee would inevitably just nod and say it was acceptable, with nothing more than a cursory glance. And so instead, Haymitch carefully folded the letter, and held a stick of sealing wax to a candle, the sputter and hiss of the melting wax being the only audible sound in the room. He allowed several large globules of wax to fall against the letter's opening before firmly pressing Mr Heavensbee's seal into it.

Suddenly the entire room shifted. Haymitch found himself on an open, dusty road beneath a vast grey sky. Birds flew at incomprehensible speeds above him, the numerous black wings writing messages in an impossible to decipher ancient language.

In a split second, Haymitch was back in the study in Hanover Square. It had only been a blink of an eye, but Haymitch had the impression that he had travelled hundreds, maybe even thousands of miles.

Breathlessly, he reached for a nearby crystal decanter, carefully pouring himself a large measure of fine brandy.

No sooner had the glass touched his lips and he had felt the warmth of the first sip upon his tongue, then the room shifted once again. He dared to try and read the language of the birds, and every single one turned their beady eyes upon him.

He cried out in distress , dropping the brandy glass to the floor. It shattered in an instant, and every single bird screeched at the sound of the broken glass. He fell to the floor, and halfway through his fall, he found himself back in London once again.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked a voice. Haymitch looked up into the concerned face of Rue, the young maid.

"Fetch me a glass of water," he said, his voice shaking somewhat. She nodded and turned on her heel as Haymitch clawed his way back to his feet and sat back down at the writing desk. He felt a sickeningly fast movement as he was pulled back to the other world, and closed his eyes tight shut, not wishing to risk garnering the attention of the many thousands of birds once again.

"Here you go, sir," said Rue.

Haymitch opened his eyes a fraction. He was in Heavensbee's study. With an unsteady hand, he took the water from Rue. He looked at it for a moment, before reaching for the crystal decanter and swigging a large mouthful straight from the bottle.

Some kind of magic was occurring, and whatever it was, Haymitch was certain that Mr Heavensbee was not the source. But there was a way for Haymitch to find out. After taking a second calming gulp of brandy, Haymitch held the glass up in front of him and whispered, "Show me."

He stood up, looking through the water in the glass, and slowly turned around.

"What are you doing, sir?" asked Rue.

"I wish I knew," Haymitch shrugged. "It's supposed to detect magic, but I have no idea what I am looking for." He walked around the study, holding the glass up in every direction, until he saw the strangest thing—a tiny, glowing ball of golden light. "Would you look at that?" he said quietly, more to himself than to Rue.

He experienced the nauseating rushing sensation again, and this time he was prepared for it, reaching a steadying hand out to lean against the wall. He was back in London once again before he knew it. Swallowing the mounting sensation of fear, Haymitch held the glass up once more to try and capture the ball of light.

"It's outside," he said at last. "Someone out there is doing magic." Haymitch walked to the window and looked outside. There were several people in the street: well-to-do ladies out for a morning stroll, rich gentlemen on their way to coffee-houses and business meetings, servants performing their daily duties… But no one that looked as if they were performing magic.

"Do you think it could be Mr Mellark?" asked Rue.

"Perhaps," said Haymitch, unconvinced. There was no distinctive blond hair amongst the gentlemen outside, and Haymitch was certain that they would have received word if Mr Mellark had returned to London. Haymitch held the glass up once again. "I wonder if I have made a mistake," he muttered. There was only one way to be certain.

He walked downstairs and straight out of the front door, into Hanover Square, and held the glass up once more. The light was much brighter out here. Whoever was performing the magic was close. Even as he had that thought, the worlds shifted rapidly once again. Looking around the square, no one else appeared to be affected. He wondered at this; perhaps his close proximity to Heavensbee for all these years had made him much more susceptible to the effects of magic than most folk?

After taking several deep, steadying breaths, Haymitch began to push his way forward. The light within the glass of water grew brighter and stronger with every passing step, but as he drew closer to the source of the magic, the lines between the two worlds seemed to grow less distinct.

He began to stumble as he crashed between London and the strange land of the ravens over and over again. Words seemed to fly at him. Concerned gentlemen asking if he was alright mingled with the screeching sound of birds, and their cawing became indistinguishable from the human voices.

A carriage appeared, and to Haymitch it seemed to be driving through both Hanover Square and the Other land. He held the glass of water up towards it, but it did not appear to be the source of the magic; instead the source was on the pavement, moving on a path to intercept with the carriage. Haymitch stumbled onwards, determined to solve this strange and terrifying mystery, while he was still able to hold on to some semblance of reality.

As he approached the carriage, several things happened at once: Heavensbee stepped out of the carriage, while at the same time, a nearby woman reached up and pulled the hood down from her cloak. Haymitch recognised her from somewhere, although in his disorientated state, he could not place exactly where. But as he held the glass of water up towards her, he realised that this woman was the source of the disrupting magic within Hanover Square.

A shout rang out across the Square. As he flickered between the two worlds, Haymitch could see that the young woman had raised her arm towards Heavensbee, a pistol pointed directly towards his master's heart. Haymitch ran forward, and pushed Heavensbee to the ground, just at the precise moment that a loud bang rang out. An eerie silence followed the terrible noise, which was soon replaced by the sound of panicked screaming. Without warning, Haymitch was thrown fully back into London, and as a sickening pain spread from the bullet wound to his chest, he collapsed on the cold, hard cobbles of the road.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience in waiting for this next chapter! I've been so ridiculously busy with RL lately, that all my writing has had to take a major backburner.
> 
> But I think I can safely say that the end is in sight for this story! And even though Mr Mellark and Miss Everdeen have at least one more MAJOR setback to overcome, the will be getting their (much deserved after the hell I've put them through) HEA soon enough :)
> 
> Thanks to Court for her tireless beta work in this fandom.
> 
> And happy birthday to my friend titania522! I wish I'd known it was your birthday, so I could have written something especially! As it is, I'll have to dedicate this chapter to you :)
> 
> Please feel free to leave feedback, and come and say hi on tumblr :) Don't forget, reviews make new chapters appear faster!

Cinna bent double in the cool night air, retching and heaving until his pained stomach was entirely empty. The massacre he had just witnessed was unprecedented. He and the gentleman had jumped from place to place all over the world, as the gentleman tracked down every man who had attacked Cinna's mother on the slave boat. He systematically slaughtered every last one, as well as their families. But it was the vile mutilation of their bodies that had left Cinna reeling. As the gentleman hung each man up and with a sharp knife sliced away their lips, their genitals, and the skin from their hands, Cinna tried to tell himself that each of these men deserved their fate. But he wanted justice for his mother, and this was not justice. This was vengeance, pure and simple.

Cinna heard footsteps approaching him and looked up towards the gentleman, who was grinning maniacally and dripping with blood. "It will not be long now until I am able to divine your true name, Cinna! You shall be King before the year is out, of this I am certain!"

Cinna retched once more and wiped the spittle from his mouth.

Suddenly the gentleman froze, and Cinna thought that for a moment a look of fear passed over the gentleman's face. Before Cinna was able to stand up straight, the Earth began to fly rapidly beneath their feet. When it came to a halt, Cinna looked around. They were back in England, in a study, where a lone occupant was stood before a desk. A single candle provided the only light in the room, and the occupant was reciting a mantra of sorts, over and over again. He did not seem at all concerned by the sudden appearance of a fairy and a servant in his study, which led Cinna to believe that both he and the gentleman were invisible.

Cinna took a step closer towards the occupant. "That's the magician," he said.

"Yes. Yes it is."

"What is he doing?" Cinna asked.

"I believe he is trying to summon a fairy. Ha! The fool! It will never work."

"But…sir," began Cinna, his voice full of caution. "Unless I am very much mistaken, and I apologise humbly if I am, he _has_ summoned you."

As it always did when the gentleman's rage ignited, the temperature dropped rapidly. Mr Mellark stopped his recitations and looked up hopefully, intrigued by the sight of his frozen breath hanging in the air in front of him. "Hello?" called Mr Mellark. He looked around expectantly. Indeed, he looked directly towards both Cinna and the gentleman, squinting his eyes in their direction, but after a moment the magician sighed and continued to recite his spell.

"Yes," snapped the gentleman impatiently. "He has worked out how to summon me. But I do not choose to show myself to him. Do not suggest that his power is superior to mine."

"Of course not, sir," answered Cinna immediately, although he could not help but smile internally. The magician had the gentleman rattled, and in Cinna's eyes this could only be a good thing.

The gentleman ground his teeth as the temperature continued to plummet. "Why does he continue to torment me, Cinna? I have separated him from his love. He has lost the closest friend he had. Why does he not give up in despair?"

"Humans are resilient creatures," he answered, shaking his head at his own fairy-like answer. He had spent far too much time in the company of the gentleman.

The gentleman did not speak immediately, instead making an annoyed huffing sound. "Well," he said at last, "while we are here, we may as well have some fun."

The magician was still looking confused as to the sudden cold, and the gentleman smirked. He pointed to a candlestick on a shelf, which suddenly flipped on its side and fell to the floor. The magician hurried over to examine the fallen object and as he bent down, the gentleman laughed and said, "Cinna, pull on the back of his hair! That will surely vex him!"

Cinna did as he was told, not wishing to upset the gentleman, but he could not help but notice the sly smile that crossed the magician's face as he jumped at the irritating feeling of his hair being tugged. If the gentleman was hoping to antagonise the magician, he was very clearly mistaken.

************

Haymitch slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Mr Heavensbee sitting beside his bed, watching him almost warily. A dull, throbbing pain spread from his shoulder and across his chest as he tried to move.

"Why were you doing magic?" asked Mr Heavensbee.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you for asking," replied Haymitch, his voice thick with sarcasm. Mr Heavensbee had at least the good grace to look abashed as Haymitch struggled to sit upright. "What happened?"

"You were shot."

The pain in his chest throbbed once more. "I had figured as much for myself. Who was performing magic in the square? Who was the woman?"

"The only magic being performed was by you. So, I have a question of my own. I would like to know why you were performing Haydn's Oculus. And furthermore, where you learned it."

"That's hardly the most pressing matter right now," he answered, shrugging slightly, before he grunted in pain at the movement. As his master began to open his mouth to protest, Haymitch added, "Suffice it to say that someone else was performing magic in the Square, and I wished to locate the source of it."

"How do you know—?"

"The worlds were changing. I kept finding myself in a strange land, full of ravens. It was as if England was merging into the Other Lands. I performed the Oculus and the source of the magic appeared to come from outside, in the Square. So perhaps you might now answer my questions?" His shoulder throbbed especially painfully and he leant back against the bedstead, exhausted from the effort he had exuded.

Heavensbee took a deep breath. "The woman you saw was Miss Everdeen. The magic you witnessed through Haydn's Oculus was nothing more than a trace of the magic I used to restore her to life."

"That was Miss Everdeen? Why was she trying to shoot you?"

"Who knows?" said Heavensbee. "After she fired the weapon she was easily subdued, but she was ranting and raving about Sir Cresta's daughter. Miss Everdeen accused _me_ of causing Miss Cresta's despair, as if it were somehow my fault that her husband died so prematurely."

Haymitch tried to process this information, but the terrible pain caused by the injury to his shoulder would not allow him to concentrate. He was certain there was more to the mystery than just the presence of Miss Everdeen. It could not possibly have been her that had caused the worlds to shift. Instead, Haymitch tried to focus on the small part of the mystery that perhaps he _could_ solve. "Where on Earth did she manage to appropriate a gun?"

"Apparently Mr Everdeen keeps a fine set of dueling pistols. They are usually kept locked safely away, but that servant of his forgot to lock the cabinet after cleaning them."

"Cinna? But he is usually so attentive…"

"Yes, well, since when have servants ever been reliable?" muttered Heavensbee irritably.

Haymitch bit his tongue against the slight, but his mind was racing. Suddenly, a random memory from years ago resurfaced: that of a skeletally thin man covered in strange blue tattoos, ranting about how one day magic would be restored to England. He had ignored it at the time, and later had assumed it to refer to Mr Heavensbee and Mr Mellark. Now, however, it seemed that perhaps Marvel had known more than he was letting on. Magic was indeed coming back to England, in a much greater way than anyone had suspected.

************

After an evening of drinking and gambling with his brother, Mr Mellark was convinced that he had, at long last, found the solution to the problem of not being able to summon a fairy.

Captain Mellark had mentioned that the King's madness had worsened, and had wondered out loud as to whether anything could be done to ease the monarch's condition. In his drunken state, Mr Mellark recounted to his brother everything that had happened on the day that he had been summoned to Windsor Castle for that very purpose. And the more he spoke, the more the answer became obvious to him.

He was certain that a fairy had been present the day that he had visited the King. And he was certain that he had summoned a fairy to his study on at least one occasion, but that they had remained hidden from him. So it was all just a matter of _perception_. After all, the King could clearly see the fairy that he, Mr Mellark, could not. Perhaps the King's madness allowed him to see the fairy?

"Well then, my genius brother, how do you manage to solve this conundrum?" Captain Mellark had asked.

"Easy," said Mr Mellark. "I shall make myself mad."

Captain Mellark had looked at him and guffawed, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was being ridiculous. Mr Mellark had joined in with his brother's raucous laughter, but when he awoke the following morning, he found that the idea had not left him.

The wine he had imbibed the previous night made his head pound, and he insisted that Gale bring him a strong, sweet coffee in order that he might collect his thoughts.

As Mr Mellark saw it, the root of Miss Everdeen's sadness and melancholy was magical in nature. He had not the learning nor the resources to cure it himself. He required someone powerful and knowledgeable to learn from. Mr Heavensbee was not an option. The most knowledgeable and powerful beings with regards to magic were fairies. It was utterly imperative that he be able to summon one in order to cure Miss Everdeen, and if that did indeed require a little self-induced madness, it was a very small price to pay.

He sipped at his coffee and a plan began to formulate in his mind.

One week later, under the cover of night time, Mr Mellark was stood at the entrance to Bethlem Asylum. He tethered his horse, Victor, to the gates, casting a spell so that no one else would see the magnificent beast. He then cast a spell to prevent anyone from noticing him whilst he was stood in shadow, and used magic to unlock the gates, slipping inside unseen.

In the darkness, the wails and cries of the tormented souls housed within the hospital's four walls rang out like a banshee, and Mr Mellark felt a creeping horror. What if he failed to only induce a temporary madness? What if it became permanent, and he ended up here, forgotten, abused, like all these other patients?

He shook the terrifying thought away, and forced himself to have faith in his own abilities.

Sticking to the shadows, he spied upon the doctors talking to one another and discussing the patients, so that he might learn more about the forms of their madness and pick a suitable candidate. It did not take long, and soon he found himself stood before a locked door with a painted number '6' beside it.

Glancing around furtively, he tapped the door three times, and it swung open smoothly and silently. With one last look to check he was not being watched, Mr Mellark ducked inside, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Lying on the unwashed bed before him was Mr Mellark's chosen subject. He looked at the wretch before him and felt a tremendous pity. Too much time frequenting opium dens, mixed with a natural propensity towards madness had left the poor soul unable to communicate, and convinced of a false reality.

He stepped out of the shadows to view the man's living quarters. They were utterly filthy, and while Mr Mellark could not pretend to be an expert in mental illness, he could not help but think that treating patients with such little dignity would not help their recovery. The poor man did not seem to notice that Mr Mellark had appeared out of nowhere in front of him. Clearly he was so preoccupied with all of his other demons that the addition of a new stranger was of no concern.

"I am sorry that life has treated you so shabbily," said Mr Mellark.

The man stood up from his bed and walked over towards the windowsill. There, he ran his finger over a collection of dead flies and other insects before picking one and placing it in his mouth. The man made an appreciative sound, then swallowed the morsel, and picked another. In a remarkable flash of movement, the man shot his hand out and caught something out of the air. When he opened his clenched fist, another dead insect, a wasp this time, was in the palm of his hand. The madman placed the insect's corpse along with the others on the windowsill.

Mr Mellark watched this strange behaviour and shuddered, trying desperately to suppress his gag reflex. "I believe I may have a solution that would be amenable to us both. I cannot cure you. But I may be able to set you free, in a manner of speaking."

Mr Mellark paused. What he was about to attempt was highly unethical, and caused him to have a flashback to his time in the Peninsula War; he had performed some highly questionable magic back then as well. He placed his hand against the mould-infested wall to steady himself, and took several deep breaths. The poor man in front of him would never be cured. He was here, in this hell-hole, until the day he died. Surely anything was better than being forced to live out one's days in such utter squalor.

The man moved in a strange manner, with sudden twitching movements reminiscent of a spider, and Mr Mellark swallowed his nerves one last time. "May God forgive me," he whispered to himself. Aware that the twitching man was watching him almost expectantly, Mr Mellark picked up one of the dead insects. The wasp was the freshest kill, and therefore the most intact. "I will need this," he said to the poor wretch, and as he picked it up, the madman snarled and threw himself at Mr Mellark. Mr Mellark reacted instantly. With the wasp secured tightly in his left palm, he threw his right hand up into the air. There was a sickening flash of yellow light, and the man paused in his attempt to attack. A serene smile crossed his face, and he reached his hands gently, almost lovingly, towards Mr Mellark's face. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and Mr Mellark took the one of the man's outstretched hands into his own.

The wasp in Mr Mellark's left hand seemed to burn with an intense heat, while the man before him seemed to shrink and shrivel. His skin turned from pallid grey to a dark stone, and finally to black, while thick barbed hairs sprouted from his body. But something more seemed to sprout from his body as well. Two extra pairs of arms forced their way out of his torso, and yet still the man continued to shrink, until Mr Mellark carried in his palm an enormous yet docile spider—the body that the madman longed for, one that his broken mind accepted. Mr Mellark placed the spider upon the windowsill beside the dried-out insect corpses. The spider appeared to survey them for a moment before darting outside through a crack in the barred window.

Pausing to recollect himself and to swallow the bile that kept threatening to rise, Mr Mellark looked down at the wasp in his hand and studied it closely. It now appeared engorged and strangely mutated. The yellow stripes appeared almost luminous in the darkness of the filthy cell. He carried within his palm all of the patient of Room 6's madness.

A wailing cry from an adjacent room brought Mr Mellark to his senses. Pocketing the wasp, he cast a shroud of darkness over himself and melted into his surroundings, slipping back outside unnoticed.

He rode hard through the night, determination driving him onwards. As soon as he was safe back inside his study, Mr Mellark was overcome with a nervous excitement. He was on the verge of finally being able to summon—and speak to—a fairy, of this he was certain. And he was convinced that this meant he was also on the verge of curing Miss Everdeen. He withdrew the wasp from his pocket and stared at the evil-looking insect for a full minute before taking a deep breath and placing it inside his mouth.

All at once he was transported to Hell. The screams of a hundred-thousand tortured souls rang loudly in his ears, pleading for forgiveness, begging for a reprieve from their eternal torment, and amongst these desperate voices he could clearly hear his own. He wept as he was punished for each of his sins, and even Dante's detailed descriptions did not fully prepare him for the fear and terror he felt. Violent winds tore at him, and lakes of boiling blood rose from nowhere, threatening to consume him. An enormous black dog, its maw dripping and bloodied, tore into him, its breath hot and putrid, and he watched, entirely unable to move, as the remainder of his body was devoured by worms.

Above him, an eyeless corpse opened its mouth, and thousands of beetles and wasps spewed forth from the jaws, crawling in to his own mouth, his eyes, his ears, his nose….

Somehow, through the violent images, he remembered that there really was a wasp that he had placed in his own mouth, and he spat it out into his palm, pocketing it immediately. The world resolved itself back to a mundane reality and he found that he was curled up on the floor shaking and sweating. Gale was beside him, trying to force a blanket around his shoulders, and for a brief moment, Mr Mellark's most trusted servant turned back into the terrifying eyeless corpse. "No!" cried the magician, trying to back away from the monstrosity. He covered his eyes with his hands, but the terrible images were burned into his retinas.

"Listen to me," said Gale. "Whatever you just saw wasn't real! Do you hear me? Not real!"

Mr Mellark felt his hands slowly being prised away from his eyes, but he was too fearful to look into the face of his confidante. Instead, he felt himself being lifted to his feet, and manoeuvred towards a chaise-longue, where he collapsed into a fitful sleep.

In his nightmare, Miss Everdeen was walking away from him, across a strange, barren wasteland. Countless birds blocked the sky from view, and a cruel wind whipped her hair into the air. He tried to call out to her, but his voice was carried away by the wind, and the moment he spoke, he felt the eyes of every bird in the sky turn upon him. But he continued to follow in her wake, desperate to never lose sight of her.

He woke up the following afternoon, still fully dressed and feeling as exhausted as if he had walked all night long. Very gingerly, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew the magically engorged wasp. "That poor man must have been madder than I anticipated," he mumbled to himself as he examined the frightful insect. "No matter. I simply have to find the correct dose."

He used magic to dry the insect out, then ground it to a fine powder using a mortar and pestle. Careful to not waste a single speck, he mixed the powder with a fine brandy, creating a tincture, and then he delicately measured ten drops of the mixture in to a full glass of water.

His heart raced as he held the glass up to the light, swirling it around so that the madness was evenly dispersed throughout it. Praying with all his might that he would not have to experience the same level of hell that he had previously suffered, he downed the water in a single gulp.

At once a realisation dawned upon him that his innards—indeed the innards of every man, woman and child on God's Earth—ran by clockwork. He marveled that he had never really thought of it before. He had no recollection of ever remembering to wind his clockwork heart and lungs, but he supposed that the fact he was still living was evidence enough that he must do it regularly.

As quickly as he could, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and threw it to the floor, along with his shirt and undershirt. He began to giggle rather uncontrollably as he stood before the mirror, admiring the intricate network of cogs and dials covering his bare chest.

The pitter-patter of rain gently tapping on his window caught his attention and he ran to look outside. His servants were going about their business, as if nothing was unusual. Not one of them had taken even the minor precaution of using umbrellas! In frustration, Mr Mellark pulled his window open and leant outside. "Get indoors, all of you!" he called out to them. Several surprised and shocked faces looked up towards him. "Hurry! Lest you rust where you stand!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised that he himself was half-naked in the rain, and in a panic, withdrew into Woodhay Manor, slamming the window shut. He ran straight to his bedroom and wrapped himself in a blanket, panicking that he had not dried himself in time.

The following day he was left with a strange kind of hangover. In his mind he was faced with two very distinct possibilities: firstly that all people ran on clockwork, and secondly that they did not. He knew that one of these ideas would be considered sane and perfectly reasonable, and that the other idea could possibly have him committed, but the problem was that he was not sure which was which. However, as long as he did not make the mistake of actually _asking_ someone to confirm which was which, then it was not a particularly pressing problem. Although, if he were to have dealings with fairies, he would need as many of his wits about him as possible.

_The dosage is clearly still too high, _he thought as he measured seven drops of the madness tincture into a glass of water. As he drank the prepared liquid, he suddenly became preoccupied with the vast number of eggs that must exist in the world. He sat down cross-legged upon the floor, pulling at his hair, as he tried to contemplate the figures. And as he sat, a horrifying thought came to him; that his home was completely and utterly full of eggs. He ran to a cupboard and opened it; jumping backwards in horror as hundreds of the blasted things fell out and smashed on the floor. He tried another cupboard, and the same thing happened. He opened desk draws, boxes, chests... all full of eggs. "I have no idea what Gale is playing at, buying so many of these wretched things," said Mr Mellark to no one in particular. "I certainly do not have the need for this many."__

__He stormed from the house, leaving a rather bemused looking Gale with the instruction to ensure the house was completely cleared of all eggs by the time he, Mr Mellark, returned. He marched straight to the stables and instructed Thom to ready a carriage that would take him to town to his favourite coffee house, hoping that a little light refreshment would help clear his mind of the strange preoccupation. However, when he asked to be sat at his usual table, the waiter was unable to respond clearly. When Mr Mellark asked the man to repeat himself, he was able to see why. The waiter was carrying at least three whole eggs within his mouth. As the waiter soundlessly mouthed words, Mr Mellark could just about see them lodged towards the back of the man's throat. Mr Mellark fought the urge to reach inside the waiter's mouth and pull them out, lest the man choke on them. _After all_ , he thought bitterly, _if he does choke it would serve him right for putting them there in the first place_. Eventually, as the waiter spoke, one of the eggs inside his mouth cracked, causing raw yolk and albumen to spill over the man's chin. Mr Mellark left the coffee house in absolute disgust, but not before telling the proprietor that until the waiters were properly trained as to where to store eggs—because, after all, the mouths of men who were supposed to serve was not fit storage for something as delicate as a raw egg—then he would no longer be patronising the establishment._ _

__The following day, Mr Mellark awoke with a terrible thirst, as well as a pounding headache. He looked in the mirror and was rather disturbed to see his unshaven, bleary-eyed appearance. After running a hand over his face, he decided to head straight to the kitchen to find something to drink, rather than wait for Gale to bring it to him._ _

__He pushed open the door to the rather unfamiliar room and was greeted with the sight of Sae, an elderly lady who had been in the employ of the Mellark family since before he was born, expertly kneading a mound of dough on the huge wooden table that occupied the centre of the room. Maysilee, a pretty new maid he had recently hired, was sat at one end of the table, eating a bowl of steaming porridge, while Gale sat beside her, absently picking at a stack of toast while reading the morning paper._ _

__"Master Peeta, sir, what brings you down 'ere?" exclaimed Sae. At her words, Gale looked up from the paper, while Maysilee's eyes widened. She put down her spoon with a clatter and stood up, curtseying with her head bowed._ _

__"Please, don't allow me to interrupt your breakfast. I beg you continue," said Mr Mellark. He gestured for Maysilee to sit down again before turning to Sae. "I thought I would dine down here this morning, if that is ok?"_ _

__"Pull up a seat, Master Peeta, we'll fix you up some tea."_ _

__He sat down opposite Gale, who fixed him with a steely glare. "Can I assume that today you will stay in your right mind?"_ _

__"I beg your pardon?" said Mr Mellark as Sae placed a teapot and cup in front of him before returning to her kneading._ _

__"Let's just say that your rather strange behaviour of the last few days has not gone unnoticed," he said as he turned a page of the paper. "So far, it would appear that you have managed to avoid being rendered as a caricature on these pages, but I doubt that will last if you continue to act in such a peculiar manner, especially in public."_ _

__Mr Mellark's mouth hovered open for a moment. He knew that Gale had only his master's best interests at heart, but that did not stop Mr Mellark from feeling most affronted. "I think, perhaps, that you have overstepped your boundaries," he snapped, snatching up the cup of tea, as well as grabbing two slices of buttered toast from the stack on the table. Both Sae and Maysilee looked warily at Mr Mellark. He shook his head to himself, causing his temples to throb particularly painfully, and he stormed back upstairs, away from his prying servant._ _

__Gale simply did not understand the desperate need he felt to speak to a fairy. It was a dangerous obsession, yes, but he was so completely convinced that these experiments would ultimately allow him to cure Miss Everdeen._ _

__Once alone, he took the bottle of tincture from his pocket and carefully measured out four drops into a glass of water. The idea of allowing madness to overcome him once again made him incredibly nervous, but he thought of Miss Everdeen, trapped inside her own mind, and he thought of Gale's audacity to speak to him in such a manner, and drank the mixture with reckless abandon._ _

__Nothing happened. Mr Mellark looked carefully around his study. Everything was just as it was. He gently traced his hands over the edge of his writing desk and picked up a heavy book, turning it over twice in his hands. Four drops of tincture was clearly too little to have an effect. Or perhaps he was becoming immune to the madness? Either way, this time the concoction had not worked. Mr Mellark sighed with frustration, tossing the book to one side. "Look at this fool," he said out loud. "If you can believe it, he thinks he is some kind of magician! Whoever heard of such a thing? I never believed magic possible, but there he is, conjuring all sorts from nothing but thin air. It is ungodly. I even heard that one of his brothers is a clergyman, if you can believe the irony! Little wonder that they speak so rarely. And as I understand it, he thinks he can cure madness with madness! And he thinks he will get a woman as perfect and pure as Miss Katniss Everdeen to fall in love with him. Hopeless dreamer. His mother always said he was a disappointment. Well, she was right. Ha!" He turned towards the gentleman with snow-white hair who was hovering just behind him. "Do you know he is even trying to summon a fairy? What do you make of that?"_ _

__As soon as Mr Mellark noticed the strange-looking gentleman, he also noticed a rather pungent smell of blood mixed with the scent of roses upon the air. The gentleman had a wicked grin on his face, as if he had been about to create some kind of mischief. But the moment that Mr Mellark spoke, the gentleman froze, and Mr Mellark was certain that the temperature in the room dropped almost imperceptibly._ _

__The magician's breath caught in his throat as his eyes desperately roamed over the face of the gentleman with snow-white hair. His eyes fell upon the slightly pointed tips of the gentleman's ears, the delicately manicured hands, and the way the gentleman's pale skin seemed to glow under its own luminescence. His heart beat harder and faster than ever. Surely this strange man was an Otherworlder?_ _

__Mr Mellark cleared his throat with a small cough, acutely aware of his earlier ramblings that the fairy must have overheard. He felt his face begin to flush with a mix of embarrassment and apprehension. He needed his full wits about him if he were to have dealings with a fairy..._ _

__"You are a fairy, am I correct?" he asked rather breathlessly, feeling a second acute flush of embarrassment at the obvious question._ _

__The fairy nodded. "I am. And you are the magician of the South."_ _

__"You have heard of me?" asked Mr Mellark, rather taken aback._ _

__"Oh yes," said the fairy in a rather bored tone of voice. "Your incredible feats are well known to me." The fairy yawned widely, not bothering to cover his mouth at all._ _

__"I have been attempting to summon you for quite some time," said Mr Mellark._ _

__The fairy shrugged. "I had no idea. If I had known, of course I would have hastened to you sooner."_ _

__Mr Mellark felt that the fairy sounded disingenuous, but he pressed on regardless. "Then you know why I have summoned you."_ _

__"I daresay for the same reasons all magicians want to know me. You want me to give you something."_ _

__"That is true, in a manner of speaking. But I must check, you will give me anything I ask for, am I correct?"_ _

__"Perhaps," he shrugged. "If it is in my power to do so."_ _

__"I am sure that what I require of you will be."_ _

__"What can I offer you then, oh great magician?" said the fairy. Mr Mellark thought to detect a hint of sarcasm in the fairy's voice. "Gold? Power?"_ _

__"Knowledge," replied Mr Mellark. "I wish to learn from you. I wish for you to teach me everything you can about magic."_ _

__The gentleman with snow-white hair paused, a sardonic smile upon his face. "I can offer you riches beyond your wildest dreams," said the gentleman._ _

__"No," replied Mr Mellark. "I am already rich. I have no need for more money. Will you teach me?"_ _

__The gentleman with snow-white hair stayed resolute in his silence, the same sardonic smile fixed upon his face._ _

__"Then perhaps you might supply me with some simple information. I imagine that England has changed somewhat since your last dealings with any magicians. Perhaps you could tell me the name of the last English magician you had dealings with?"_ _

__Once again, the gentleman stayed entirely silent, his lips pulled tightly across his sharp, rather pointed teeth, in a leer-like smile that did not reach his eyes._ _

__"No? You will bring me an object only?"_ _

__The gentleman nodded silently._ _

__"And if I ask for a material possession, you cannot deny me?"_ _

__Once again, the gentleman nodded, and the strange smell of blood and roses seemed to grow ever more powerful._ _

__"If that is the case, then I wish for you to bring me an object that you gained from your dealings with the last magician you worked with."_ _

__The temperature in the room dropped rapidly, and for a split second, the gentleman appeared almost animalistic. His smile left his face and was replaced with a cold, hard glare. He reached into his inner coat pocket, and appeared to be fighting a strange impulse. It seemed clear to Mr Mellark that the gentleman was very much loathe to give up whatever treasure he was reaching for._ _

__It was a small and ornate box with a beautiful opal set into the lid. The more that Mr Mellark stared at this opal, the more he realised that he could not quite place the colour. If he were forced to describe it, he would say that it was more or less the colour of heartbreak._ _

__"Thank you," said Mr Mellark, as the gentleman with snow-white hair handed the small box to him._ _

__He made eye contact with the gentleman and was, for a moment, frightened by the look of pure hatred that he saw there. The magician swallowed heavily and said, "Thank you, my good man. I hope to work with you again sometime."_ _

__After a second's pause, a wide smile broke out upon the gentleman's face. "Yes. I am sure I shall see you again," he answered in a mocking tone of voice. The temperature seemed to drop ever lower, before the gentleman snapped his fingers and vanished into thin air._ _

__The sound of a drum beating a hard, fast tattoo seemed to be echoing around the room, and Mr Mellark listened for a moment or two before realising it was his own heart pounding against his ribcage. He was not entirely certain that he hadn't imagined the whole encounter. He had definitely taken a small amount of the madness tincture. There was a distinct possibility that the whole thing had been another elaborate hallucination._ _

__Except that he was carrying within his hands a beautiful and ornate box with an opal the colour of heartbreak set into the lid. He examined the box thoroughly, his heart fluttering somewhere in his throat, and he held his breath as he opened it._ _

__Inside was a most peculiar thing. It appeared to be a perfect replica of a young woman's finger, similar to the ones found in Marie Tussaud's travelling exhibition. However, this seemed even more realistic than those wax models. He wondered why the fairy was so loathe to be parted with it. Indeed, he wondered why the fairy still carried it about his person, for he had expected the fairy to have to disappear and return with his chosen prize._ _

__Mr Mellark reached into the box to pick it up, and nearly dropped the thing in shock. It was not a wax replica. It was a real human finger, still as warm as if it had been attached to its host body._ _

__Mr Mellark thought for a moment of Miss Everdeen. Something about this finger put him in mind of her, but he could not think what, and the more desperately he searched for a connection, the more it slipped away like sand in an hourglass._ _


	16. Chapter 16

Mr Mellark barely slept that night. It was all he could do to stop himself from dancing around his room. He always felt a certain sense of excitement following the success of a new piece of magic, but the success of finally summoning a fairy caused jubilation in his soul.

The fairy himself had seemed a very odd sort of fellow, but he supposed that was to be expected. However, he thought it best to remain guarded whilst around him. Heavensbee had certainly been right in at least one respect regarding fairies; they were clearly not safe. However, Mr Mellark reconciled this within his own mind with the thought that neither was he especially 'safe.'

All day, Mr Mellark considered summoning the fairy again, but something within him kept prompting him to stop. He certainly had many more questions for the fairy, even though the creature had seemed to display a certain animosity towards him. Perhaps he had thought that Mr Mellark was mediocre in his talents? That he was unserious? And so Mr Mellark thought that perhaps he would show the fairy that he was indeed in earnest in his resolve to learn magic from an Otherworlder. Instead of summoning the fairy to England, Mr Mellark would travel to Faerie.

His heart racing, he stood before a full length mirror and reached out towards it. A memory came back to him of his dear friend, Finnick Odair, begging him not to travel on the King's Roads again. At the time he had promised his friend that he would not, but had thought of how he would be able to convince Mr Odair to renege on his request. But now, in the wake of his friend's death, that promise had become entirely sacred.

And besides, if he were to impress the fairy, he would need to utilize a brand new piece of magic. Surely there were other roads out of England and into Fairie? England used to be full of them after all. What if they were all still here? What if finding one were just a matter of altering his perception of the real world very slightly?

He had not wanted to take the madness drug again. But a reckless abandon overtook him, and without further thought, he placed three drops of the tincture into a glass of water and knocked it back.

Just like the previous night, at first Mr Mellark thought that nothing had happened. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a glittering path of light leading away from his feet. He found that if he looked at the trail directly it faded into nothingness, but as long as he kept it just at the edge of his vision, he could follow it quite easily.

Seeing that he would have to go outside, Mr Mellark called for his great coat and boots. As soon as he was wrapped up against the weather, he headed out, being sure to keep the trail in the corner of his eye. It was not long before he had walked out of the boundary of his land, and was crossing hills and brooks.

Just as the sun was starting to sink over the horizon, Mr Mellark encountered a rather difficult problem. The trail of glittering light led straight off the cliffs and out to sea, hovering in the air like an army of fireflies. He walked tentatively up to the edge and peered down into the foamy depths below.

It was not lost on him that this was precisely where his brother had last seen Finnick Odair, before his sudden illness and premature death, and Mr Mellark thought briefly on how terrible it would be if he met his own end here. After all, if his hypothesis was incorrect, then one more step and he would be swallowed up by the churning waves. But if he was right then he was even closer to finally curing Miss Everdeen of her mysterious melancholy

As with all magic, confidence was key. And he would never impress the gentleman with snow-white hair by being cowardly. He took a deep breath, swallowed his nerves, and ignored the furious pounding of his heart, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, walked straight off the edge of the cliff.

Immediately he let out the breath that he was holding and began to laugh. He was correct and had not plummeted to his death after all. He took a good look around, for he was no longer anywhere near Beachy Head. Indeed, he did not appear to be anywhere near England. He was stood on a path that ran through a wood of ancient, gnarled trees. The trail of glittering light ran straight along the path, and so Mr Mellark continued to follow it.

So many strange sights caught his eye. There was a waterfall that reflected all of time within its waters. Song birds performed the most startling and impossible arias. Trees rose to the heavens, the tops of their branches stretching away to invisibility. Mr Mellark wanted to stop and study everything, but worried that the magic showing him the path would wear off if he did not keep following it. But there would be plenty of time in the future to study this magical world. And with the gentleman beside him, he would learn even more.

After an age of walking - or was it an age? Mr Mellark could not tell if he had been walking for five minutes of for five years - he came across a rather decrepit looking castle. The glittering trail led straight through a crumbling stone arch and through an overgrown garden, where thorns and briars tore at his clothing. He slipped inside an open door and as the realisation that the trail of glittering lights had vanished, and he had clearly reached his final destination, he was hit by a rather peculiar feeling.

Everything about this place seemed so incredibly familiar, as if he had visited previously in a dream. His feet trod a familiar path along a long, stone corridor. From an adjacent room, he could hear the sound of a solitary pipe and viol being played, and this melancholy music sent a shiver up his spine as he recalled how he very nearly allowed the King of England to be lost to a fairy.

He paused before a huge oak door, and took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Before him, a fairy congregation was dancing an endless dance, and the sight of them brought back everything. Every single lost memory. Every single visit to Panem. The weight of the memories almost overwhelmed him, and he gripped a nearby wall for support as he desperately looked around for any sight of Miss Everdeen.

His eyes scanned over the dancers but he could see no sign of her. There was the fairy dancer whose dress was made of armored beetles; there was the man with the silk coat that sang; there was another dancer whose dress had been woven of spider webs and moonlight; and a dancer wearing little more than a loincloth woven from spun gold and a necklace of seashells.

Another memory came to him, striking him with the full force of a lead weight. The fairy he had summoned - he was the one who was holding Miss Everdeen captive here. And... the trophy the fairy had given him - the finger - it belonged to Miss Everdeen! He instinctively patted at his pockets and cursed out loud, making one of the nearby dancers scowl at him. The ornate box with the opal that was more or less the colour of heartbreak was currently secreted away in his desk drawer. If only he had had the foresight to bring it with him! It was surely the key to saving Miss Everdeen from this terrible fate! No wonder the gentleman with snow-white hair had been so loathe to part with it!

His resolve strengthened, Mr Mellark forced his way through the dancers once again. Tonight he would find her, and he would finally be able to deliver her the news that he had the means to save her.

"Peeta?"

Mr Mellark turned sharply at the sound of his given name. The voice was painfully familiar - one that he had not heard in months. But it could not possibly be... he had died. He had seen the body...

Finnick Odair was stood before him, his eyes full of a mixture of fear, confusion, and yet tinged with a spark of hope. He was the dancer Mr Mellark had seen from across the room who was wearing impossibly little, and Mr Mellark felt himself redden at the sight of his close friend displaying so much flesh.

There was no such embarrassment from Mr Odair, who appeared overcome with emotion. "Katniss said that you had been here. I did not believe her. It has been so long. At least, I think it has. How long have I been here?"

Mr Mellark stared at his friend for a moment or two, trying to comprehend everything that was happening. "It has been a little over ten weeks," he said at long last. "You are not dead?"

"Dead? No! I have been trapped here, a prisoner! Half the time I have Katniss - Miss Everdeen - for company but the rest of the time I am utterly alone amongst these heathens! The gentleman with snow-white hair told me that I am to remain here forever because of - in his words - my "beauty." It is... something that fairy folk greatly prize." Mr Odair's voice cracked with emotion, and he took a deep breath before continuing. "But you are here now!" Something dark crossed Mr Odair's face. "But she also said how you had been here many, many times, with no recollection of anything that transpired here-"

"I promise you, that will not happen this time," interrupted Mr Mellark.

"How can I be sure you are even real? There are so many falsities in this strange world."

"I assure you, my friend, I am very real."

Mr Odair reached towards Mr Mellark with a trembling hand. It was quite clear that, like Thomas, he would doubt Mr Mellark's existence until he could touch as well as see. But instead of merely allowing Mr Odair to touch him, Mr Mellark pulled his friend into a close hug. Tears formed in the eyes of both men as they embraced. "You are certain that you will remember this when you leave?" said Mr Odair, with an uncharacteristic desperation.

"I am," replied Mr Mellark. "And I plan to dedicate every second of my time to finding a way back home for you. I promise I shall not rest until you are back on English soil."

"Thank you," said Mr Odair, shaking with emotion. "Thank you."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr Mellark thought he could see the glittering lights that had led him here. A cold hatred gripped him, for that trail would lead him straight towards the fairy - and Mr Mellark had a word or two for that odious gentleman.

But when he looked up, it was not the object of his hate that caught his eye. A vision of radiance, as beautiful as the Sun itself, had just entered the ballroom. It was not the magical trail that had caught his eye, but the flames of Miss Everdeen's dress.

His breath caught in his throat as he loosened his hold on Mr Odair. "Go to her," said his friend, and with a faint nod, Mr Mellark stepped towards his love.

It seemed as if a magic caused the dancers to part the way, much like the Red Sea did for Moses, and in seconds he was stood before her. From the confusion in her expression, it was clear that she could not believe her own eyes at first. A sheen of tears quickly turned her steely grey eyes to shining silver, and she reached her hand up to cover the slight gasp from her lips.

"I have returned," said Mr Mellark very simply.

The gasp she gave turned into a cry as she flung her arms around his neck. He swept her up, showering her face and neck with kisses, all the while whispering reassurances to her that he was real.

"And this time, my love, I can promise you for certain that bringing you back to England is my only priority."

"You have a plan?"

"Not exactly," he admitted. "I shall need to do a lot more specialized reading. But I believe the death of the spellcaster often puts an end to any enchantments."

"Do you mean - you intend to kill Mr Heavensbee? I tried to kill him myself, after Mr Odair arrived here. I saw how much grief his absence caused Annie, and..." She trailed off sadly.

Mr Mellark had heard reports that Mr Heavensbee had been attacked. The papers had said that it was a French spy, trying to kill the accursed English magician for his part in Napoleon's defeat and exile. The papers had said that it was a very clumsy attack, and that Heavensbee himself was perfectly safe, and that the perpetrator was awaiting trial, but no more details regarding the identity of the attacker had been mentioned, and there had been no more mention regarding any trial in the papers since. Mr Mellark had found the whole thing to be decidedly suspicious. But if the French spy was a cover story to keep the truth hidden...

"It was you that shot Heavensbee...?"

"I tried to. I failed. But you could do it. You could kill him."

Mr Mellark paled rapidly. "Good Lord, no, I should hope that it would not come to that. I was thinking more of the death of the fairy who holds you here... A fairy is not an easy thing to kill, however. I recall reading an account of a magician once killing a minor fairy with a precise combination of silver and magic. But how exactly...? If only I had access to Heavensbee's books!"

"You shall find a way, though?" she asked.

"Of course," he said, squeezing her tighter. "I shall do everything in my power. And, if I say so myself, my power is not inconsiderable. In the meantime, do you still have access to the bow and arrows I once saw you practicing with?"

"I know where to find them."

"Good. Make sure to hide them so that they can be easily accessed at a moment's notice. I think, when the time comes, you should have the honour of killing him."

"And then I shall be free?"

"I believe so, yes. You, and Mr Odair, and Cinna as well."

A slight smile crossed her lips, but it was a cold smile, one filled with hatred for the being who had held her captive for so long, as she thought of his demise. "And when can we do this?"

"Patience, my love. Yes, I know you have waited for a long time already," he said, as she began to protest. "But if we are to end this enchantment, we have to do it correctly. One false move could jeopardise our chance."

She seemed to accept his judgment and relaxed slightly in his arms. "As long as when it comes to it, I kill him," she said.

"Of course. Now, come. Let us find your bow and arrow. It does not hurt to be prepared well in advance of battle."

*********

The gentleman with snow white hair was surveying the dance with an imperious eye. Lately, he had taken to choosing Cinna's dance partner for the entire evening, as if trying to find a suitable Queen for when he finally made true on his promise to make Cinna a king. Cinna stood beside him cautiously, hoping that tonight the gentleman would choose a far more reasonable partner than the previous few nights. Cinna had no wish to choose one of these strange beings to spend his enchanted life with, but certainly some were more agreeable than others.

"You certainly do look most dashing tonight, Cinna," said the gentleman.

"Thank you, sir."

"Were it not for our latest addition, the magician's friend, I believe that you would easily be the most handsome man in the room!"

"Thank you," said Cinna.

"Would you like me to kill him to ensure your position?"

"No, sir!" Cinna said emphatically. "I mean... it is very...noble...of you to offer, but... I should not wish to deprive your other guests of his beauty."

"Yes, I suppose you are correct," sighed the gentleman. "But really, there is only one woman here who can match you in looks. Tonight you shall dance with Miss Everdeen. Now, where is she?"

The gentleman surveyed the crowd, and Cinna noticed the sudden drop in temperature just moments before the gentleman hissed the word, "No..."

Sensing danger, Cinna quickly scanned the room, to try and determine what had caused so much upset to the gentleman. His eyes quickly alighted on Miss Everdeen, her distinctive dress flickering brightly in the candlelight. She was walking away towards the back of the room, to where a huge oak door led to the East Wing of the decrepit castle. And hand in hand with her was a gentleman with a blond head of hair. Surely it could not be the magician?

A spark of hope leapt inside Cinna's heart. Who else but the magician could it be to have created such a response in the gentleman with snow-white hair. The magician clearly had powers that the gentleman had not foreseen.

"This cannot be happening," said the gentleman. "I have destroyed their bond! I sent him away! How did he find his way back? Why is he here, Cinna? What does he mean by it? Oh, he means to harm me, of that I am certain!"

A terrifying aura of power surrounded the gentleman with snow-white hair. The very air seemed charged with his anger. Cinna felt as if he were standing at the edge of a tall precepice, and that the fate of everyone rested upon what he said next. "He certainly is more powerful than we expected," he said delicately. "Perhaps if you were to release...certain people...from their enchantment, he would show you mercy."

"No," said the gentleman. "No, I know these English magicians. That will not satisfy him. I must kill him before he attempts to kill me."

"No!" begged Cinna, looking around desperately for inspiration. Miss Everdeen and Mr Mellark had paused by the oak door. He was holding on tightly to her like a lifeline, and as he did so, the flames of her dress grew brighter and brighter, filling the dreary hall with a blazing light. Cinna silently urged the two of them to run, but they stayed resolutely where they were, lost in each other's embrace. The flickering of Miss Everdeen's dress was entirely mesmerizing. "Flames glow brightest in the darkness," he said to himself, almost unaware that he had spoken out loud.

"Yes," breathed the gentleman. "Darkness! Oh, Cinna, what would I do without you!"

Without warning, the gentleman turned on his heel and began to stride towards the centre of the hall. Cinna was in a panic. He did not know what the gentleman intended to do, but it could not be good.

An unearthly voice filled the decaying hall. It seemed to rise up from the cracked flagstones; it was a voice that was ancient and filled with malice, and the whole world paused to hear it. "Be gone!" said the voice.

All of the dancers, Christian and Fairy, subject and captive alike, stepped backwards and faded into nothingness. Only the magician remained, and he threw his arms around the space that had previously held Miss Everdeen, as if his waiting embrace could call her back from wherever the gentleman had sent her. Mr Mellark's eyes blazed with hatred as he turned and stared defiantly into the face of the gentleman.

"I demand that you release Katniss Everdeen and Finnick Odair from the enchantment that binds them here!" he said, his voice powerful and steady.

"You are in no place to make demands, magician," replied the gentleman. He raised his hands to the ceiling and as he did so, a great plume of darkness poured forth from the ground. It was comprised of dead leaves, shadows, and other detritus, and without warning it encompassed Mr Mellark. A second later it had vanished.

The gentleman raised his hands a second time. Every cry ever uttered by a mother over a lost child, every tear shed by a heartbroken lover, every moment of suicidal despair ever felt came tumbling through the cracks in the walls. It crashed over Mr Mellark in a terrible wave. A second later, it too had vanished.

The gentleman raised his hands one final time and the air thronged with wings. Ravens, crows, blackbirds - all flying in a chaotic, never-ending dance. They flew towards the magician, surrounding him, blocking him from Cinna's view. From within the army of birds, Cinna could hear a pitiful human voice. A moment later, every bird flew away, but the magician was nowhere to be seen.

The gentleman collapsed to the ground, and Cinna looked around the empty hall in horror.

"What have you done?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with fear.

"I have dealt him such a blow," said the gentleman, and it was clear that every word caused him pain and exhaustion. "I have called upon my most ancient allies."

"But what have you done?" repeated Cinna.

"Darkness, Cinna. I have given him Darkness. Oh, he shall rue the day that he tried to cross me!" With a satisfied smile, the gentleman lay back against the cool stones, his eyes closed, and he moved no more.

The silence in the hall was deafening, the emptiness overwhelming. Fear had been his constant companion in the years since he had first been enchanted, but now it had been replaced by something even worse; blind terror, and an absence of hope. He dreaded the moment he would wake up back in England and discover what, precisely, the gentleman had done.


	17. Chapter 17

The tincture of madness lay abandoned on the sideboard. Candles covered every available surface, casting skeletal shadows that danced and writhed. Mr Mellark stood before the full length mirror. Every attempt to pass through its surface had failed; the gentleman had closed the King's Roads to him. No amount of madness could make the glittering path reappear. But Mr Mellark refused to give up. Not now. Not now that he was so close. There had to be other ways for him to reach Faerie. There simply had to be.

He had been working non-stop, ever since the gentleman with snow-white hair's spell had ejected him from fairy and left him sprawled and exhausted on his chamber floor. Yet nothing he tried would work. Spells that had seemed so simple, so obvious before, ceased to be in any way effective. As he tried—and failed— to conjure the glittering path that would lead him back to Faerie, back to Miss Everdeen and Finnick Odair, back to that _scoundrel_ who had stolen them away, Mr Mellark swore a string of curses in Portuguese, a language he associated quite naturally with soldiers and their rather colourful use of swears.

A knock at the door of his chamber caused Mr Mellark to look up sharply. A second later, Gale had entered the room. Without preamble, Gale spoke.

"Sir, you are frightening the other servants. They begged me to ask you to cease this magic and return the sun to the sky."

"Whatever are you talking about Gale?" said Mr Mellark as he passed his hand over the mirror several times. The surface wobbled very slightly but reformed itself instantly.

"The sun, sir. Whatever spell you've cast, you need to undo it."

"I haven't done anything to the sun," said Mr Mellark irritably.

"I see. So, we're just imagining this night time?"

Mr Mellark's gaze flickered to the window, and he looked out onto the night sky. He checked his pocket watch, which confirmed that it was precisely midnight. "Hardly," he said, returning his attention to the mirror. "But I fail to see what the problem is."

"Sir, it is just after two o'clock. In the afternoon."

For the first time since being thrown from Faerie, Mr Mellark stopped attempting to do magic. He rushed to the window and gazed up into the pitch of night. The stars that hung above Woodhay Manor were not the usual stars of England. They were menacing and Otherworldly.

"This is not my doing," said Mr Mellark breathlessly. "I promise you, Gale, this is not my doing."

"Can you bring the sun back?"

"I have not the least idea how..." He gazed once again at the unfamiliar stars, shaking his head in disbelief. "Has this night covered the entire of England?"

Gale shook his head. "I rode out not half an hour ago. In about half a mile it becomes day. From outside, it appears to be an enormous black tower, stretching all the way into the sky, with Woodhay Manor at its very centre. My watch told the correct time, but the instant I rode back into the night time, the hands immediately returned to midnight."

"I did not know…"

"Neither did we at first. Sae got up early, as usual, to make our breakfasts. She thought that perhaps a particularly bad storm was coming, and that was why it was so dark, but after several hours it was still as black as night, with no storm… we knew something was terribly wrong. That was when we noticed the clocks. Every clock in this house tells the same time. Midnight. "

"Why did no one come to me sooner?"

"Everyone else is terrified! They refused to come anywhere near you. And I wanted to know precisely what we were dealing with before I confronted you. But aside from knowing how far this shroud of darkness stretches, I'm none the wiser."

Gale shrugged and sat heavily in an armchair. The information was of such a shock to Mr Mellark that he did not bother to reprimand Gale for the lack of protocol. In a panic, his eyes flew around the room, over the papers containing his notes that were strewn everywhere, over the flickering candles that seemed to mock him with their light, over a tiny ornate box, set with a beautiful opal that was more or less the colour of heartbreak...

He rushed to pick it up and began to laugh. "Gale," he said through his relief. "Saddle Victor up for me. I intend to leave for London within the hour."

Gale nodded and left Mr Mellark alone. The magician's heart pounded as he opened the tiny box once more and gazed upon the human finger within. It suddenly all made sense. _Something he had gained from his last dealings with an English magician..._ This is what the fairy had gained from dealing with Mr Heavensbee... Katniss Everdeen's finger. It signified his hold over her. Surely then, if he could just reunite the finger with its true owner, the fairy would no longer have any claim to her. No wonder he had been so loathe to part with it!

He rode as fast and as hard as Victor would carry him. And yet no matter how fast he rode, he did not seem to be able to escape the strange tower of night. He pictured how terrifying and bizarre it must look to anyone on the outside, to see the black, soaring spire tearing through the countryside.

After a couple of hours of hard riding, Mr Mellark approached a milestone at a crossroads that informed him London was a mere fifteen miles away. With a tight smile, he rode on, thinking solely of Miss Everdeen and how he would at long last be able to put an end to her misery.

After riding onwards for another twenty minutes, Mr Mellark came to another milestone. This one also seemed to proclaim that London was only fifteen miles away. Mr Mellark stared at the milestone in confusion, and shook is head in annoyance, convinced that he had read the previous one incorrectly. But the next milestone also read fifteen miles, and the next one, and the next. No matter how fast or how long he rode, he could not seem to get any closer than fifteen miles. Eventually Mr Mellark was forced to conclude that whatever magic prevented him from entering Faerie was also preventing him from being allowed to enter London.

Broken, exhausted, and bewildered, he cursed violently and began the long trek back home. He still had three quarters of the vial of madness left. If a fairy had cast this terrible spell, he would need to think like a fairy to end it. And he would need every last drop of that madness to help him achieve such an end.

********

Within a week it seemed that everyone in London was aware of the terrible tower of eternal night, with Mr Mellark at its very centre. Rumours abounded that anyone who entered the tower was trapped inside forever, that the moment the darkness touched a person's skin, that poor soul would be immediately transported to hell. And, of course, the rumours quickly reached the ears of Mr Heavensbee.

How the tides had turned! Where once upon a time, Mr Mellark had been the first port of call for government officials wishing for the advice of a magician, now he was spurned: a cursed, maligned being.

No sooner did Mr Heavensbee hear of the terrible tower of darkness, than did people beg him to dispel the unnatural night from England.

For the first few weeks, Mr Heavensbee ignored the requests, but when a direct order came from Prime Minister Coin himself, Mr Heavensbee could no longer allow them to fall upon deaf ears.

"They say he is quite mad," said Mr Cato, the gleeful tone in his voice very much at odds with the tragic words he was saying. "That he sits in the darkness, day and night, conversing with the Devil himself, begging him to bring the dead back to life. As I understand it, he may well have been... intimate... with that fellow, Mr Odair. Well! When one has already bargained their soul away to the Devil in exchange for such carnal pleasures with another man, what then can he possibly have to lose by asking Lucifer for even more? Of course, if his soul already belongs to the Devil, he has no more to bargain with, but what is reason to one who has lost his mind?"

Haymitch rolled his eyes as he helped himself to a glass of Mr Heavensbee's finest brandy, much to Mr Cato's annoyance. "Don't listen to these grossly exaggerated rumours and lies. Whatever Mr Mellark is doing in this fortress of night, I'm certain he's not bargaining with the Devil. Let me go and talk with him. I'm certain I can convince him to give up this path. He will listen to me."

"Or perhaps you will listen to him? Mr Heavensbee, I advise you against sending this..." Mr Cato paused, as if trying to find the most foul descriptor imaginable. "...this ... _servant_...to the other magician. I have long suspected him of having Mellarkite sympathies."

For his part, Mr Heavensbee was barely listening to the bickering men. It was a given that Haymitch and Cato were constantly at odds, and Heavensbee had his own train of thought to follow. He bent over a silver dish of water and tapped the surface once. A blazing light sprang forth from the depths of the bowl, and it took Mr Heavensbee several moments to comprehend that the room he looked down upon was filled with candles. They covered every single surface, as if the room's lone occupant were trying to banish the darkness from the inside out.

It was something of a shock to Mr Heavensbee to see his young protégée—Mr Mellark looked gaunt, unshaven, his eyes hollowed and haunted. He was clearly performing some kind of spell, but as to what it could be, Mr Heavensbee was unsure. The older magician cast his hand over the silver bowl in a complicated gesture, so that he might get a closer look at the type of magic Mr Mellark was performing. Suddenly, Mr Mellark looked up; indeed, he seemed to be looking directly at Mr Heavensbee. A sly smile crossed the young man's face and he wagged his finger as if to say 'no.' The vision in the bowl became shrouded in fog, and then disappeared entirely.

"What should I do?" asked Mr Heavensbee.

"To stop him?" said Mr Cato.

"I rather think Mr Heavensbee was asking what he should do to _help_ him."

Mr Heavensbee shook his head very slightly as if to clear it. He had once been a great strategist but had allowed himself to fall victim to flattery. And now, through his mistakes, Mr Mellark was dangerous.

He tried once again to conjure a vision in the silver dish but to no avail. No matter what spell he tried, he could not penetrate the magical fog that Mr Mellark had surrounded himself with.

"I cannot decide on a course of action until I know precisely what he is doing."

"Then, once again, allow me to—"

"No, wait," interrupted Mr Cato. "I have a better idea."

That day, Mr Cato sent several servants out into the streets of London. They were dispatched to milliners, tailors, furniture shops, and various money lenders. Each servant carried an envelope containing a sum of money and a letter, which explained that the money was to pay off the debts of a certain man. Mr Cato's letter explained that he considered it 'an act of charity for an old friend.'

Within a week, Mr Cato had organised a meeting with a rather odd looking fellow. Here was a man who quite clearly had no means of his own at all, but who desperately wished to give the impression that he did. His clothes, while fashionable, had been repaired so many times that they were patched and frayed. Dusty white spots covered him; on closer examination they all appeared to be originating from the man's gloves, which were clearly ancient and yellowed, but which he attempted to keep white with copious amounts of chalk.

"I have a task for you," said Mr Cato, eyeing the man with clear distaste. "And as you are entirely indebted to me, it would be in your best interest to accept it."

"You paid off my debts?" said Mr Crane, for it was he. "You are the reason I was released from prison? Oh, my dear Mr Cato! Thank you! You have no idea how awful that place was, and—"

Mr Cato held up a hand to cut the man off. "Tell me, Seneca, did any stories of Mr Mellark penetrate the walls of The King's Bench?"

"Yes," said Mr Crane, hesitation clouding his voice.

"Enlighten me."

"They say he is mad. That the Devil runs by his side. That he conjures a harem of demon women every night, dances naked with them, and together they feast on the flesh of virgins."

Mr Cato raised a single, perfectly groomed eyebrow. "I too have heard similar stories," he said after a moment's deliberation. "And I know how much you love gossip, so I am giving you an opportunity. Head to Woodhay Manor in Sussex. Find out precisely what Mr Mellark is up to. And return to me."

What little colour had been in Mr Crane's face drained away. "No," he said in defiance, although the tremble in his voice betrayed his fear. "It would be madness. Suicide."

Mr Cato contemplated these words for a moment. "I see. Although I have to disagree with you. Because, you see..." He withdrew a pistol from his greatcoat pocket and aimed it directly at Mr Crane's face. "I say that it would be suicide for you to refuse."

Poor Mr Crane! To have been rescued from the dreadful squalor of prison only to be used so ill! "Come now, James!" he said, his hands outstretched in a gesture of supplication. "We are friends, are we not? There is no need for such idle threats—"

"Idle?" repeated Mr Cato. "You believe my threats to be idle?" He casually cocked the pistol. "I would kill you in an instant were you not useful! So do as I say, and I will allow your continued existence. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Mr Crane nodded fearfully and fretfully, stumbling backwards away from his former friend and ally.

With very few possessions left to his name, Mr Crane left for Sussex almost immediately. He was able to persuade a post cart to carry him most of the journey by dropping Mr Cato's name; even if his own respect and reputation had vanished, at least he was able to use Mr Cato's to proceed.

As the post cart drew closer and closer to Woodhay Manor, the driver told Mr Crane that he was on his own, and would not travel any further. His nervous disposition was echoed by that of his horses, who all pawed the ground in agitation. "I'll have no truck with that devilish magician," said the driver, crossing his heart as he did so. "Nor the corner of Hell he was conjured to live inside."

With each passing moment, Mr Crane grew more and more anxious until, at long last, he set eyes upon his dreadful final destination.

The unnatural blackness rose up towards the sky, until it shrank to a point out of sight. Mr Crane knew what he must do; Mr Mellark was sure to be at the centre of the terrifying pillar, but knowing and doing were two very different things. Mr Mellark was supposedly mad. An enemy was a daunting prospect. When that enemy was a magician it became frightening. But when that magician was powerful and mad, it was truly terrifying. And yet he dare not return to London without news. Between Mellark's madness, and Cato's pistols, he preferred his chances with the magician.

And yet... why should he? Why should he be Cato's puppet? He was once in the highest society of London! Mr Crane looked down at his tattered clothes. It was so unfair! Perhaps he could just... run away. Escape to Bath? There was a fashionable city indeed! Perhaps not quite as fashionable as London, but the people there would not know him as they did now in the Capital. Would Cato track him down to Bath? Perhaps Edinburgh would be a safer choice? Although Mr Crane shuddered at the thought of the dreadful Scottish weather...

No. He wanted his perfect old life back, and the best way to gain that was to maintain favour with Mr Cato. But where to begin?

Mr Crane had always lived on a mixture of luck and his own wits, and as if to confirm that his former luck was returning, he spied a familiar figure riding ahead of him. Gale, Mr Mellark's most dedicated servant.

The servant was hunting for pheasants: every now and then a shot would ring out, and Mr Crane watched as a bird fell from the sky. He shuddered at the thought of being near something so filthy and bloody, but knew that if he wanted his comfortable life back, he would have to swallow his repulsion.

He approached Gale warily, and called to him from a distance. The servant span around, his rifle pointing straight at Mr Crane.

Mr Crane immediately threw his hands into the air. "Please don't shoot me! I'm a friend!"

Very slowly, Gale lowered the rifle. "Friend?" he called out. "Hardly. I know you. You're the man who sold my master's services without his permission."

"But there was no harm done to him!" Mr Crane called back, walking closer. "It was me that suffered! But I have paid my price and I am here to make amends!"

As Mr Crane approached the servant he smiled sycophantically, and even though Gale's rifle was lowered, it was still pointed vaguely in his direction. He lightly placed his outstretched finger on the barrel, moving it to face away.

A muscle had clenched in Gale's jaw. "And how do you plan on doing that?" he deadpanned.

"I'm here to help your master."

"And who sent you to do that?" replied Gale.

Mr Crane smiled once more. Gale clearly understood the implication and turned his back immediately, and began to march towards his latest fallen kill. He had to get the servant on his side: indeed, it could well be his only safe way to find out about the magician... He looked briefly at the dreadful tower of night and shuddered. The very sight of it filled him with such a terrible fear. He trotted after the servant and began to walk beside him, despite the exasperated sigh that Gale gave.

"Gale," said Mr Crane, his voice simpering and kindly, "do you not miss regular day and night? Look here at the beautiful sun shining on England's green, rolling hills and luscious meadows. And look at where you are being forced to return to! This strange, everlasting night is no way for a good man such as yourself to live. My dear friend, Mr Cato, has long complained that his servants are stupid and lazy. You are neither. Leave Mr Mellark's employ and return with me to London, and you will be rewarded."

Gale's head turned to look towards the pillar of darkness and he appeared to be fighting some internal struggle.

"You are fearful of him, I can see that," continued Mr Crane. "But Mr Heavensbee is the greater magician, and he could place you under his protection. Tell me, is it true that Mr Mellark has been conversing with Lucifer himself?"

"Well," began Gale, "there is something he has done that deeply concerns me but… It is difficult to describe. It would be far better for me to show you."

"Of course," replied Mr Crane, placing his hand on Gale's arm in a gesture of support. "Lead the way."

Gale glanced once more at the endless night, before turning his back on it and heading towards a small copse of trees that stood on the bank of a river. Gale walked at a far faster pace than Mr Crane was comfortable with, and he was almost forced to jog to keep up. They wove through the trees and stopped on the bank.

"There," said Gale, pointing in the far distance. "Can you see?"

Mr Crane looked upwards but could see nothing out of the ordinary.

"Maybe you need to be stood here for a better view," said Gale.

Mr Crane swapped places with Gale and once again stared upwards but could not see whatever it was that was concerning the servant. As he started to turn back he said, "I do not—" but was immediately cut off as Gale punched him hard on the jaw.

The force of the punch sent Mr Crane reeling backwards, and he fell into the river. He just heard the words, "Take that back to Heavensbee, you sniveling wretch!" before a strong current pulled him under the water.

Mr Crane fought against it, but the current seemed to fight back. It felt to him as if the river had grown arms that held him steady, pulling him down then lifting him back up to prevent him from drowning. He could almost hear whispers, as if the river were sentient, and were transporting him to a terrible place.

A powerful magic was at work. As the river swept him along, Mr Crane became the water. It flowed through him and he flowed through it. He became the river bed, ebbing and flowing, pained as the powerful water wore away at him. He became the stones, ancient and unmoving. He became the roots of the trees that drew their life from the water.

There was magic in the world far more impressive than anything either Heavensbee or Mellark had ever done. Theirs were merely parlour tricks. The world had waited for an eternity to show its power, its contempt for the people ruining its beauty, and Mr Crane was the one who would bear witness to that power.

At long last, the river spat Mr Crane out onto a muddy bank and he lay there, panting and exhausted. He had no idea how long the river had been carrying him, how long the magic of the world had been tormenting him; it must have been hours because night had fallen.

He looked up into the night sky, and immediately his heart was gripped in a vice of dreadful fear. He did not pretend to be any kind of expert on the stars, but these stars were most definitely not the regular ones of the English night. They exuded pure malevolence, and he felt himself shrinking under their baleful gaze. These were surely the stars of the magician's eternal night.

He stood up but it was not of his own accord. His limbs were being moved as if he were a mere marionette. The magic forced him to turn around, and there in front of him, its walls and windows as dark as its surroundings, was Woodhay Manor. "Please, no!" he called into the darkness, but there was nothing except eerie silence in answer.

He stumbled forward one clumsy step at a time, fighting against the terrible magic that bound him to move onwards. As he approached the front door it swung silently open of its own accord.

The inside of Woodhay Manor was a dreadful mess, and it was this more than anything that upset Mr Crane. He was accustomed to beauty in all things, and to be surrounded by so much filth and waste... How he hated the magician! How he hated both of them!

A flickering light ahead of him caught his eye, and his movements increased. His breath caught in his throat, for surely he was to come face to face with the magician at last... No sooner had the frightful thought entered his mind, than did he hear a strange muttering, followed by a dreadful and unearthly howl and an enormous crash.

"Please..." he whimpered as his limbs dragged him ever closer. "Please let me go..."

He turned a corner and there was Mr Mellark, slumped in a corner. A broken desk and smashed mirror lay next to him. The magician was entirely still and unmoving, and all of a sudden the feeling returned to his arms and legs. The awful spell that had forced him into the frightening Manor was no longer in effect. Did that mean the magician had killed himself? Mr Crane almost laughed in relief!

Suddenly the magician snapped his head up, and fixed Mr Crane with a bloodshot eye. "I know you," he said slowly, as if each word cost him a great effort.

Terror such as he had never known gripped Mr Crane's heart like a vice. Mr Mellark's descent into madness was well-known, but to actually see how far the young magician had fallen… A piteous whimpering escaped Mr Crane's lips.

"Your friends are worried for you," said Mr Crane, placing far more bravado into his voice than he actually felt. "They asked me to—"

"I know you," repeated Mr Mellark, more forcefully this time. He screwed his face up in concentration. "Crane," he said at long last. "Yes. I remember you. You are a leech. A parasite."

"N-no," stammered Mr Crane.

"Yes," confirmed Mr Mellark. "You have no discernible talents of your own. No redeeming qualities. You ride on the backs of men far greater than you and profit from the misery of others. Why did I summon you?"

"You d-did not s-summon me," said Crane. "I was sent to you by—"

"I brought you to me," said Mr Mellark. "But to what purpose? What purpose?" The magician paced back and forth, pulling at his hair, and Mr Crane's terror grew by several degrees. The magician was not merely mad; he seemed utterly deranged. The magician reached for a small vial and poured a little into a glass. He topped this up with brandy, and for a moment Mr Crane thought he heard the sound of a hundred thousand wasps filling the room.

Mr Crane tried once more. "Your friend Heavensbee is—"

At the mention of Mr Heavensbee, Mr Mellark let out a bellowing roar. He lashed out at an occasional table, upturning it, sending papers and debris flying across the room.

The effort of his outburst seemed to cost him, and Mr Mellark slid to the floor and sat amongst the detritus of his room. "I brought you to me, parasite, to give you an opportunity. A chance to redeem yourself." The magician reached into his inner coat pocket and withdrew two items: one was a sealed letter, and the other was a small box. On the lid of this box was a beautiful opal. Try as he might, Mr Crane could not name the colour of the opal. It was more or less the colour of heartbreak. "Take these items to Haymitch Abernathy. Tell him—" Mr Mellark shivered fretfully for a moment, and his own words seemed to pain him. "Tell him that Heavensbee lied to us all. Deliver that message to Haymitch. Give him the letter and the box. Tell him that I will restore magic to England. That it is not as difficult as we all supposed. I know what I must do. All the magicians, all the Districts he denied... they will be restored. You must…you must…"

"I will," said Mr Crane.

"Fail me, parasite, and I will destroy you."

There was pure hatred in the magician's eyes, and Mr Crane nodded fearfully. "I will not."

"There is one more message you must deliver. One to Heavensbee himself."

"Of course," said Mr Crane as he secreted the box and letter inside his own ragged coat pockets.

Mr Mellark struggled to his feet. He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths and shook as if repressing some terrible memory. But when he opened his eyes once more he was as steady as Mr Crane had ever seen him. "Tell Heavensbee that I am coming."


	18. Chapter 18

Since Mr Crane's departure, Mr Cato had been on tenterhooks, anxiously awaiting his return. He had already bribed many carriage drivers, inn-keepers, and toll-keepers to keep watch for Mr Crane, and to send immediate word back to him of any sighting, but he could not help but worry that Crane, slippery as he was, would manage to deliver whatever news he had discovered before he, Mr Cato, could intercept it first and properly… _tailor it_ … for the ears of Mr Heavensbee. Or worse, that Mr Crane would deliver it to that wretched servant, Abernathy, and the blasted man would offer his own accursed advice.

Mr Cato reflected on the life he had become so accustomed to. It seemed strange to him that a few short years ago he would have readily scoffed at the idea of keeping company with a man such as Heavensbee, but the fact was that while Heavensbee remained so influential, he wanted to be as much a part of that influence as possible. He was not prepared for Mr Mellark to ruin his comfortable life, and would do whatever it took to put a stop to the young magician's nonsense.

Despite his inner concern, it was of course vitally important to maintain an outer impression of calm. One of Mr Cato's own servants was much taken to reading accounts of the hangings of criminals, and as of late, Mr Cato had found himself enjoying the accounts too. Indeed, it was the only thing that could take his mind away from the problem of Mr Crane. He was reading—with a great amount of disdain—the tale of Jonathan Bruce, a dock worker who had murdered a young lad in a boat off Milford Haven. The account told how Bruce was discovered after the murder in a state of nervous agitation. It seemed a common factor amongst many murderers who had been caught that it was their own emotions that led to their inevitable capture and demise.

"Sir," said a voice, and Mr Cato looked up sharply from his newspaper. His valet, Castor, was stood before him.

"What is it?" asked Mr Cato, returning his attention to the newspaper.

"Sir, I received word that Mr Crane is currently resting at an inn just outside of Kingston on Thames. He plans to travel to London tomorrow."

"Find me a horse, immediately," said Mr Cato, abandoning his paper at last.

"Sir, I have already taken the liberty of acquiring you a coach—"

"Did I say I wished for a coach?" snapped Mr Cato. "I need a horse."

"Very good, sir," said Castor, bowing his head and backing out of the room.

Within twenty minutes Mr Cato was mounted on the fastest horse that Castor was able to find, riding hard towards Kingston.

The sun was heavy in the sky by the time Mr Cato finally arrived at the Post House Inn, and he found Mr Crane inside, nursing a plate of bread and cheese, and a steaming mug of hot spiced wine.

"Mr Cato!" said Mr Crane as soon as his eyes alighted upon his once-close friend. "Oh, it is such a relief to see you after what has happened to me. I have experienced hell and worse. I was not certain I would ever see my dear London ever again. But here you are, to escort me safely home."

"Be quiet," said Mr Cato. "And follow me."

Mr Crane quickly finished the spiced wine, and wrapped the bread and cheese into a handkerchief, pocketing it before he left the table.

Once outside the inn, Mr Cato mounted his horse and looked around for a discreet place to lead Mr Crane.

"Mr Cato, you absolute noodlehead!" declared Mr Crane. "Did you forget to get me a horse as well? How do you ever expect me to get back to London on foot?"

"We are not going to London. Not yet at any rate. This way," he said, pointing his horse whip towards a copse of trees.

Mr Crane froze solid, a look of unmitigated terror in his eyes. "I cannot," said Mr Crane. "No. I cannot."

"I am not giving you an option," said Mr Cato coldly.

"No!" cried Mr Crane. "No, you do not understand!"

Mr Crane raised his whip up high. "You do not understand, Crane. Now move!"

"I am not afraid of being beaten!" said Mr Crane, showing a rare spark of defiance. "Your whips are nothing to what the trees might do! While I was close to the magician, the world sought to harm me! And the trees, and the rivers, and the rocks… they are alive, Mr Cato. They are alive, and…Please. I need to stay near civilisation. I cannot be near nature. It wants me dead!"

"A chance I am willing to take," said Mr Cato, bringing the whip down hard against Mr Crane's shoulders. "Now move!"

Mr Crane cried out in fear and stumbled forward, Mr Cato shepherding him onwards towards the copse.

At the edge of the trees, Mr Cato dismounted and tied his horse to the trunk of one of the younger saplings. "Into the trees," he said.

"No, I beg you, please no!"

Mr Cato reached into the inner pocket of his greatcoat, and pulled out an ivory handled pistol. "This is not a matter that is up for discussion," he said coldly. "Into the trees."

Whimpering noisily, Mr Crane took several reluctant steps forward. Both men entirely failed to notice how the leaves on the trees paused for a moment, ignoring the gentle breeze blowing on them. They failed to notice how the leaves seemed to turn their attention down towards them. They both failed to notice that several strands of creeper had chosen that moment to grow very suddenly, and were weaving themselves along the floor towards them.

"You saw the magician?" asked Mr Cato.

"I d-did," sniffed Mr Crane.

"And?"

"It was as you all suspected. He is mad. He was rambling about restoring magic—as if that hasn't already happened! —and Heavensbee being a liar."

"Is that all? I paid for your debts, I released you from prison for this?"

"No! He… he gave me messages! One for Mr Heavensbee and one for his servant!"

"And these messages are?"

"I have a letter and a gift for the servant. And I am to tell him that Mr Heavensbee lied to everyone."

"Give them to me," sneered Mr Cato.

"No! You cannot imagine what the magician will do to me if I fail! He told me I would be destroyed!"

"And you think I won't do the same?" said Mr Cato, raising the pistol a little higher.

Stricken with anguish, Mr Crane reached inside his pocket and removed two items: a sealed envelope, and a little box, the lid of which was set with a beautiful opal. Try as he might, Mr Cato could not quite name the colour of this opal. He supposed that it was, more or less, the colour of heartbreak.

He looked at the letter first, and fought back a derisive chuckle. "This has not been opened!" he said.

"No, it has not!" said Mr Crane.

"You have had a letter in your possession for all this time, and you have not opened it! I could not leave you alone in my house for five minutes without all of my correspondence being read, and yet you leave this sealed! And what is in the box?"

"I have not looked," said Mr Crane, tears beginning to stream down his face. "I did not dare to."

Mr Cato quickly broke the seal on the envelope and scanned the letter to Haymitch Abernathy. It detailed that Heavensbee had solicited the use of a fairy servant to bring Miss Everdeen back to life. That the fairy had stolen something personal from Miss Everdeen and was keeping her under a terrible enchantment. There was a written spell which Mr Mellark explained to Haymitch would allow the item to be restored to her, and an explanation that the item was inside the box. He slid the letter back inside the envelope, then opened the box.

It took every ounce of his decorum to maintain an entirely passive face at the sight of the severed finger that sat inside.

Snapping the box closed, he said, "There was a message for Heavensbee as well. What is it?"

"The magician said that he was coming."

"He is coming? When? Where?"

"I do not know!" cried Mr Crane. "Now please, return the letter and box to me, I must deliver them! I cannot risk failing!"

"I think not," said Mr Cato. "I shall give the message to Mr Heavensbee, but this letter cannot be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. And—sorry, _old friend_ —but you cannot be allowed to tell anyone what has happened here."

Mr Crane's eyes grew even wider with fear, then he turned and sprinted deeper into the trees. Mr Cato cocked his head slightly one side, watching his prey run for just a couple of seconds, before he raised the pistol and fired.

The shot caught Mr Crane in his leg, and he stumbled and fell to the floor. Mr Cato lazily reached inside his pocket, and refilled the pistol with shot and gunpowder before sauntering over to where Mr Crane was crawling away on the floor, desperately trying to escape. Mr Cato considered the man below him for a moment before aiming the pistol and, almost lovingly, squeezing the trigger.

The side of Mr Crane's head cracked outwards, like a smashed egg. His body twitched once, and was still. ' _Really_ ,' thought Mr Cato, staring down at the dead body at his feet, ' _if he had known what he would become, he would have asked me to do this to him years ago._ '

His mind flashed back to the newspaper he had been reading earlier, to the accounts of murderers caught by the dreadful displays of emotion shown after the deed had taken place. His heart rate was slightly elevated, perhaps, but aside from that, he felt really very little for the dead man. Clearly those men that were caught after performing such a deed were blithering fools. Mr Cato allowed himself a small smile that he would not fall into such a trap.

Around him, something strange was taking place. The creepers on the floor wove together to form a thick, sturdy rope, which wound itself around Mr Crane's neck. It lifted his body up into the air, leaving him dangling at the end of a noose. A tiny shoot of a new plant appeared in the holes left by Mr Cato's bullets. These shoots grew rapidly, their roots cascading towards the ground, taking hold. More and more shoots began to appear over Mr Crane's body, and each one grew and grew, until there was nothing left, but a vague human shape in the middle of a thick mass of new trees and saplings.

Mr Cato backed away from the spectacle, perturbed that the magician's threat to destroy Crane had come true, but relieved that at least he would not have to muddy himself hiding and burying the corpse.

Back at the inn he ordered himself a glass of brandy, and with an ironic smile raised his glass in memory of Mr Crane, before he mounted his horse and rode back to London as fast as he could.

********

In Hanover Square, Haymitch listened to Mr Cato delivering the news of Mr Crane's mission with an air of disbelief. There was so much to the man's story that made no sense, not least the fact that Mr Crane was nowhere to be seen.

"Tell me again," said Mr Heavensbee. "How far into Darkness has Mr Mellark fallen?"

Mr Cato signed impatiently. "There is no time for this, Mr Heavensbee! Do you not understand that he is coming? You must prepare yourself to fight! To kill him if necessary! I would suggest carrying a pistol with you at all times, just in case."

"A pistol? I do not think pistols are necessary to solve this problem."

"Really, Mr Heavensbee?" said Mr Cato, a dark smile crossing his face. "You would be surprised what problems can be solved with a good pair of pistols."

The silence that descended on the room was charged with a strange magic of its own. For several long, tense moments, no one spoke. Finally, Haymitch said in a quiet yet firm voice, "You saw Mr Crane? And he spoke to Mr Mellark?"

"Yes," said Mr Cato, impatience clouding his voice.

"And why isn't Mr Crane delivering this news himself?"

"Because he is too frightened! He has gone into hiding! Mr Mellark has been consorting with the Devil himself! He has been…he has cut off the fingers of several young ladies, and wears them about his neck! He says that he is bringing all of magic back to England, and in doing so he means to cover the whole of our fair land in his eternal Night!"

Haymitch caught Mr Heavensbee's eye. For his own part, he did not believe a word that Mr Cato said, but could not tell what his master believed. "Where is Mr Crane now?" he asked.

"I left him at an inn in Kingston," replied Mr Cato. "But he said that he had plans to travel further west."

"If I leave now I can catch up to him," Haymitch said to Mr Heavensbee. "I should prefer to hear this story from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

Mr Cato took a step closer towards Haymitch, and said in a threatening tone, "Are you implying, _servant_ , that you do not believe the word of a gentleman?"

Haymitch held his counsel, and once again caught the eye of Mr Heavensbee, whose own face was still utterly unreadable. "Mr Mellark says that he is coming. I do not think he means here. He is heading to my library at Northolt Abbey. If we want to stop him, that is where we must go."

Haymitch noted the peculiar look of mingled relief and excitement that crossed Mr Cato's face. "I am glad that you see reason," said Mr Cato. "Let us depart at once."

Mr Heavensbee gave Haymitch the slightest of nods. It was a measure of the seriousness of the situation that he was willing to travel such a distance with so little notice, and so, with a returning bow, Haymitch swept from the room to make preparations for the journey.

*******

"Do you know where we are, Cinna?" said the gentleman.

Cinna blinked several times. Moments earlier he had been looking over Mr Everdeen's account books, and was still disoriented from the journey. It would not do to let the gentleman be aware of this, however, and he looked around at the luxurious ballroom. White marble floors reflected the ornate golden pillars that stretched up towards a clear blue ceiling. Rich green ferns spilled out of terracotta plant pots, and the sound of running water could be heard underneath the melodious chatter and dancing of the room's beautiful inhabitants. The skin of every single person seemed to glow with a luminescent shimmer.

"I confess that I do not know, sir."

"This, Cinna, is the city of Atlantis. Many years ago it sank beneath the waves, but being the benevolent creature that I am, I could not bear to see such beauty lost forever. I rescued it, and brought it here to Faerie."

"It certainly is a sight to behold, sir."

"Quite. While here, you simply must try the braised mermaid. It is simply divine."

Cinna's stomach turned, and he swallowed his nausea. "I am sorry sir, I ate not long ago. I am not hungry."

"That is shame, Cinna. But no matter. I did not bring you here to eat. I brought you here because I have wonderful news. You know well how long and hard I have fought to find your birth name? And how I followed its traces all over the world. Cinna, I have reached the end of my journey, and am ready to tell your true name!"

A cold shiver passed over Cinna's skin as he thought of all the death, all the torment, all the destruction that had led to this one monumental occasion. Was he prepared to hear the answer? Would it really make any difference to him? He had always been Cinna….what possible good could come from knowing the name that his mother had planned on calling him?

"Sir—" he began, but the gentleman suddenly looked fearful, and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees.

"Did you feel that, Cinna?" said the gentleman, standing up slowly. Ice crystals spread out around him, coating the marble floor with a frozen sheen. The Atlantean inhabitants looked around in worry; they had clearly never experienced such cold climes and did not know what to make of such a thing.

"Feel what, sir?" asked Cinna.

"The world shook."

"Sir?"

"The magician," said the gentleman. "He is reopening all the doors in all the worlds. Even after I have tried to destroy him, he is still finding ways to thwart me! And today, too, when I had planned on telling you your name at last!"

"Sir," said Cinna, thinking quickly. "They say the younger magician has gone mad. Perhaps he does not know what he is doing? He is no threat to you."

"Hmmm," muttered the gentleman, entirely unconvinced. "But this magician has greatly vexed me. Someone needs to pay. I shall ask the North wind to deliver me to the person who is the biggest threat to me, and that person shall die. If it happens to be the magician… so be it."

"But, sir—"

"I shall hear no more of it, Cinna. Let us go. Now."

He snapped his fingers and a great wind rose in the hall, whipping into their faces. It increased in intensity until Cinna could no longer keep his eyes open. He covered his face with his hands, and just as soon as the wind had started, it suddenly stopped. Very slowly, Cinna opened his eyes. They were stood on a vast, empty moor, and Cinna audibly let out a sigh of relief. Whatever spell the gentleman had cast, it had clearly failed.

"You see, sir?" he said. "There is no one to oppose you."

The gentleman looked around the moor. "I suppose you are right, Cinna," he replied. "But it is not like the North Wind to bother transporting anyone for no reason. Ah! Look!" The gentleman pointed in the distance, where a figure could be seen stumbling over the horizon. "Perhaps this is our quarry!"

A dreadful feeling of nervous trepidation arose in Cinna's chest. He wanted to cry out to the approaching figure to turn away and run, but he was frozen in fear to the spot, and whoever the figure was, they seemed determined to maintain their course.

As the man approached— _Is it a man?_ thought Cinna. _It looks like nothing more than a walking bundle of rags!_ — the gentleman tensed in anticipation. Cinna could sense the cold determination that accompanied his every murder.

"Why!" said the gentleman as the ragged man grew nearer. "He appears to be no threat whatsoever! Although, the North Wind did bring us here. It would be most rude of us not to kill him, when the Wind so clearly wants us to."

The man walked straight up to Cinna and the gentleman and bowed with a deep flourish. "Nameless slave!" he said to Cinna, an enormous and almost manic grin crossing his face. "Your time is almost here!"

Cinna took a fearful step backwards away from the scruffy and skeletally thin man, noticing with a creeping horror that what was visible of the man's skin was entirely covered in a strange, blue writing.

"Do I know you, sir?"

"We have never personally met," said Marvel, for it was he. "But I know all about you! Soon you shall be a king, nameless slave!"

It was a refrain he had heard countless times from the gentleman with snow-white hair. Indeed, it had become such a commonplace sentence as to have almost lost all meaning. And yet, hearing it from this decrepit stranger, in the middle of nowhere… suddenly it seemed to Cinna that the impossible could, perhaps, be possible.

"Who are you?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"On the streets of London, I was known as the Great Marvel," Marvel replied with another low bow. He shot a glance full of dislike towards the gentleman before returning his attention back to Cinna. "And once you have rid yourself of this…rather unfortunate hanger-on, you shall be the King of a strange and foreign land."

At Marvel's slight, the ground surrounding the gentleman immediately turned to ice. It spread rapidly in every direction, and both Cinna's and Marvel's breath became a visible fug, hanging in the air in front of them. "Do you have any idea who I am, worm?" hissed the gentleman.

"I do," replied Marvel.

"Then you should know that I have killed men and sent their souls to eternal damnation for lesser insults than you have given me!"

"You can try, fairy!" laughed Marvel. "But I think you will find that I am a rather hard man to kill!"

"Really?" said the gentleman, his cold voice laced dangerously with poison. "Because it looks to me like nothing could be simpler."

The gentleman snapped his fingers, and from the ground rose a long, thin, delicate arrow, carved entirely from ice. It was both beautiful and deadly, and it glinted briefly in the sun. Marvel raised an eyebrow as if in amused derision at the gentleman's reaction, but before he could say anything, the arrow hurtled through the air, piercing Marvel through his heart. The look of contemptuous disbelief stayed on his face, and he crumpled to the ground.

Cinna took a cautious step forwards towards the body of the dead man. For a split second, as the strange vagabond had addressed him, he had felt as though he were a part of something much larger than himself. He had felt as though his life since the gentleman had entered and controlled it had a definite meaning. And that meaning had been stolen away from him with yet another pointless death.

Beside him, the gentleman with snow-white was positively rapturous with glee. "Did you see him fall, Cinna? I do not know why the North Wind believed he posed me a threat, but who am I to argue with such a noble and powerful ally? He is gone, and now we are unstoppable! Come, Cinna! Let us return to Atlantis. I am in the mood for a feast and a dance!"

********

After a day and a half of travel, Haymitch tired of being stuck in the carriage alongside Mr Cato and his sniping remarks. He hired a horse from a post house and rode alongside the carriage instead. From outside it became apparent to him that England's landscape was changing in unforeseen ways. Haymitch glanced at the carriage's occupants briefly. He had not believed a word of what Mr Cato had said about Mr Mellark consorting with the devil, and cutting off the fingers of young ladies, but it appeared that at least part of his message was true. Magic was returning.

As they entered Yorkshire, Haymitch let out a sigh of relief. He was home at last, though this was not the home he remembered. The trees lining the roads seemed more ancient, and more sentient. And while the leaves on the trees were thick and luscious, they gave no impression of summer warmth, as if each and every tree was dreaming of the stark death of winter.

Haymitch rode ahead a little way. He knew these roads like the back of his own hand, but the map had changed since he was last here, and it did not appear to have changed in a way caused by the progress of man. He reached a fork in the road where there should not have been one. The right hand fork was familiar and would continue their journey. But the left hand fork… The trees lining this road were even more overgrown and threatening, and yet they seemed to call to him.

He encouraged his nervous horse to take a step forward. The road was ancient. It whispered to him that it was as old as time itself. In his youth, Haymitch had heard many stories of the fairy roads that used to cross the north of England, but they had long since vanished from the land. It looked as though they were returning.

He turned back to rejoin the convoy and explained to Mr Heavensbee what he had found.

"Wait here," he said to Latier, Mr Heavensbee's footman who was driving the carriage.

"You cannot say that you mean to travel down this road?" asked Heavensbee. "These roads belong to the Raven King. Who knows what you will find down them!"

"The Raven King!" snorted Mr Cato. "How tired I am of hearing his name. Stop this nonsense, and let us away!"

Very slowly, Haymitch encouraged his horse closer to the carriage, and he leaned down and said in a dangerous voice, "I would watch your tone, Mr Cato. You are in the King's country now. And he would not take kindly to being so dismissed."

"You cannot possibly mean to say that you would be _happy_ to meet him?"

"Nothing would please me more than to be able to offer my allegiance to my true leader," said Haymitch, turning his horse back towards the strange fairy road. "Meet me at the White Horse Inn, it is but a mile away on this road. I shall not be long."

After barely a hundred yards on the fairy road, his horse became far too nervous to continue, and so Haymitch dismounted and tied the beast to a tree, in order that he could proceed on foot. With each careful footstep, the whispering from the trees seemed to increase in intensity, but whether they were encouraging him onwards, or warning him to turn back, Haymitch could not tell.

A single gunshot rang out, echoing all around him, causing a murder of crows to take flight. The black of their wings momentarily blocked the sun, and Haymitch wondered if he had come too far. But the whispers from the trees were silenced and replaced by the roar of a nearby crowd, and Haymitch pressed on with determination.

The world about him seemed strangely fragile, as if it were merely painted on the thinnest of rice paper, and his surroundings shimmered, then reformed. Haymitch found himself on the stage of an enormous amphitheatre. The seats around him looked to have been hewn from the mountain itself, and rose so far into the sky that he could not see the top of them. The crowds watching him edged forward in their seat expectantly.

A man dressed in the tattered and blood-stained uniform of a foot soldier was dragging a body towards a copse of thorned trees at the edge of the stage. With difficulty, the man picked the body up, and thrust it against the thorns, where it stayed hanging like a grotesque marionette.

The man looked at Haymitch with hollow eyes and slowly walked towards him. Haymitch backed away slightly, trying to find the edge of the strange arena should he need to make a hasty retreat.

"I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena. I defend their honour to the death," said the man. "And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

"What is your name?" replied Haymitch, still backing away.

The man looked at him in confusion, then repeated in a hollow voice, "I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

"I am not here to dishonour your people, or to fight. There can only be one victor? Then it is you. I shall not challenge that." Haymitch backed away nervously, aware of the thousands of hidden eyes watching him, waiting for his next move. The man appeared disappointed at Haymitch's refusal to fight but did not question it.

Once again, the world about him shimmered and reformed, the roars of the crowd grew distant, and he found himself back on the lonely round, surrounded by the taunting whispers of the ancient trees.

He hastened back to the main road as quickly as possible and once he found his master at the White Horse, he explained the bizarre encounter.

"You mean to say that a man challenged you to a duel, and you _refused?_ " sneered Mr Cato.

"Haymitch was very wise to do so," said Heavensbee. "Encounters with fairy folk are rarely as straight forward as they initially appear."

"He has besmirched the honour of our land!" said Mr Cato. "His cowardice is a stain on England's breast that will echo throughout that strange land, and encourage them to attack us!"

"By all means," said Haymitch, who had immediately procured himself a mug of ale upon entering the inn, and was now comfortably sat at a table, dealing his tarot cards, "Feel free to return and take up the duel yourself. I assure you that I shall not stop you."

Mr Cato glared at Haymitch before he took a seat at a table away from him, to which Haymitch smirked. He rolled a cigarette and lit it as he glanced over the cards on the table. A frown creased his brow as he dealt them again. They told him of an object given to Mr Cato that should have been his, and that Mr Cato was hiding from him, but it was a dangerous accusation to make. He had to be sure, and he dealt the cards a third time. They said the same thing.

"Mr Cato," he called out. "I do believe you have something for me."

Mr Cato's head snapped up, and he shot Haymitch a glare that would have sent lesser men running. "I beg your pardon?" he hissed. "Mr Heavensbee, are you going to allow this wretch to speak to me in such an insolent manner? I am a gentleman, after all!"

But Mr Heavensbee was not paying attention to either man. He was far too busy performing magic on his own, no doubt still trying to break through Mr Mellark's own spells, to try and find out precisely what his former protégée was up to.

Haymitch shrugged and returned his own attention to his cards, while Mr Cato tried and failed to look entirely nonchalant. Mr Cato pulled a knife from his pocket and took an apple from a bowl in the centre of the table and proceeded to peel it, glaring every now and again at Haymitch.

With a deep breath, Haymitch looked down at the cards laid out before him. The spread told him precisely what he needed to know, but his idea was still a remarkable gamble…

"Mr Cato," called Haymitch. "Is it normal for gentlemen to steal from other people? _To murder?_ Before you killed him, Mr Crane left an item in your possession to give to me, and I should like to have what is mine."

Mr Cato moved in an instant. He crossed the room and grabbed Haymitch by the front of his shirt, forcing him to his feet, then threw him back against the wall. Mr Cato's knife was against Haymitch's throat, pressing painfully into his skin.

"Those are bold accusations to make! I have had quite enough of your insolence, you guttersnipe! You whoreson!"

"Better a whoreson than a killer and a thief," said Haymitch, as calmly as his racing heart would allow.

"Heavensbee!" shouted Cato, his face contorted with rage.

Mr Heavensbee looked up from his silver dish at the spectacle of his two advisors quite literally at each others' throats, and strode towards them in alarm. "What is this?" he said.

"I have long allowed this whoreson filth to get away with behaviours that I would severely punish my own servants for! He hides behind you and his own low standing, for he knows that were he a gentleman, I would call him out here and now! Mr Heavensbee, you must make a decision. Him, or me. Only one of us will accompany you, and protect you from the mad magician."

Haymitch swallowed heavily, feeling the knife press further into his neck. His master's face was entirely unreadable. "Haymitch," Heavensbee said eventually, after the longest pause. "You should go."

Mr Cato smiled coldly, but before he released his grip on Haymitch, he brought the knife up to his cheek, and dragged the point down slowly across his skin. "I allow no one to make a fool of me and walk away unscathed," he hissed.

Once free of Mr Cato's grip, Haymitch quickly gathered his deck of tarot cards, and pressed a clout of woollen cloth to his cheek to staunch the flow of blood. "Congratulations, sir," he said, standing before Heavensbee. "You have made the wrong decision. Again." But Haymitch swore as he spoke that his former master gave him the slightest of winks.

Unsure of what to make of the gesture, Haymitch headed out into the cold night air to ready a horse for his journey to… who knew only where? He had been in Heavensbee's employ his entire adult life. He knew nothing else.

He took comfort in the slight weight of the small item that currently sat in his inner coat pocket. Whatever Crane had left him, he had managed to pickpocket it away from Mr Cato as the brute held him pinned against a wall. Quickly looking around to check that he was alone, Haymitch pulled out a letter, as well as a beautifully ornate box, with an opal set in the lid of indeterminate colour. Try as he might, Haymitch could not name it, but he supposed that it was, more or less, the colour of heartbreak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Titania for her wonderful beta reading. And thank you to everyone who has stuck with this over the years! Honestly, I think there may only be two chapters left...!
> 
> Anyway, please hit that comment button if you like what you've read, and I promise that there will be more Peeta/Katniss in the next chapter!


	19. Chapter 19

This little box the colour of heartbreak was most intriguing, but Haymitch turned his full attention to the letter first. It was addressed to him, and had already been opened; damned, Mr Cato knew everything the letter, and presumably the box, contained.

He wasn't at all surprised as he read the description of how Mr Heavensbee had used fairy magic that had backfired in order to restore Miss Everdeen to life. Indeed, it was something he had long suspected. But what _was_ surprising to him was the faith that Mr Mellark had put in his—Haymitch's—magical abilities.

He read and reread the spell, then picked up a twig from the ground. He snapped this in half, then held the two halves tightly in his fist, and uttered the hastily scrawled spell. He felt a blazing heat in his hand, and when he reopened his palm, there sat the twig, whole and pristine and unbroken.

He allowed himself the slightest of smiles. London was two days hard ride, and he had no time to lose. He mounted up and rode away into the night.

****

Mr Heavensbee watched Haymitch leave with a mix of sadness and trepidation. Haymitch had been in Heavensbee's employ for years; as a young man, Heavensbee had caught Haymitch attempting to pickpocket him. Indeed, he would have succeeded were it not for the fact that Heavensbee's pocket book had been magically protected. There was a cleverness and a will to survive in the boy that Heavensbee had recognised and respected immediately. Rather than turn the poor lad over to the authorities, who would no doubt have hanged him, Heavensbee took him in, educated him, trained him. Indeed, over the years, Heavensbee had come to think of Haymitch as more than just a servant; he was a friend. Forcing himself into a state of absolute calm, Heavensbee hoped that Haymitch considered himself enough of a friend to understand that there was far more to sending him away than met the eye. If his theories about Mr Mellark's imprisonment within the Tower of Perpetual Darkness were correct, it was not only the sensible thing to do—it was utterly vital.

He did not sleep at all well, and ordered Latier to ready the coach at daybreak, and his anxiety was not relieved once they were back on the road. It had rained through the night and every single silver puddle became a mirror. And to a magician, a mirror was as good as a door. Was this Mr Mellark's doing? Or was this an even more ancient magic? Neither option sounded especially appealing.

Much to Mr Heavensbee's chagrin, Mr Cato kept constantly checking and rechecking his pair of ivory-handled pistols, a dark smirk plastered across his face.

"I have told you, "Mr Cato," said Mr Heavensbee. "Those weapons of yours will not help."

"And I have told you, Mr Heavensbee. A lot of problems can be solved with the judicious application of a good pistol."

They arrived at Northolt Abbey a little before nine o'clock. A cold mist drifted through the surrounding trees; the weak sun could not penetrate its grey death shroud, and Mr Heavensbee shuddered at the sight. He had wanted to come home to Yorkshire for many, many years, but not under such dire circumstances.

He stepped over the threshold and into the Abbey's entrance hall. At that precise moment, the house was plunged into darkness and every clock in the vicinity began to chime. Mr Heavensbee forced himself into calm, and with a wave of his hand, all the candles in the hall were lit.

"What on God's Earth is this?" said Mr Cato, as he pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it in confusion. "It says that it is twelve o'clock."

"It is Mr Mellark's endless night," said Heavensbee. "He is here."

"Where?" said Mr Cato. "I shall more than happily deal with him on your behalf."

"He will be in the library," said Mr Heavensbee. "Where else would he be? And you shall do no such thing. I will deal with him myself."

Mr Heavensbee took off with purpose towards the library. "You will need to stay close to me," he said over his shoulder to Mr Cato. "The way forward is...convoluted."

It had been years since Mr Heavensbee had passed through the labyrinth he had put in place to protect his precious library. And it did not surprise him one jot that Mr Mellark had found a way to circumnavigate it.

But as Mr Heavensbee approached the magical labyrinth, he could tell immediately that something was wrong; Mr Mellark had reworked his own labyrinth against him!

"Impossible," said Mr Heavensbee under his breath, and he tried a different direction. But over and over again, Mr Heavensbee and Mr Cato ended up right back at the start.

"What devilry is this?" asked Mr Cato.

"We will find a way," said Mr Heavensbee. "Have a little faith." He closed his eyes, and tried to navigate his way through the labyrinth by feel alone; his eyes could no longer be trusted. "There," he said a few minutes later. "I am certain we are making headway now."

He looked around, and realised with a jolt that he was utterly alone. Of course he was. Mr Mellark would not have allowed it any other way. Mr Heavensbee steeled himself, took a deep breath, and ran his hands over the wall. There was a faint warmth, a trace of the magic Mr Mellark had used, and Mr Heavensbee smiled. His former pupil may have been a tactical genius, but so was he.

As he passed his hand over the magic left behind by Mr Mellark, Heavensbee whispered a few words of a spell, and the world around him warped. He took a deep breath and stepped forward—to any observers it would have appeared that Mr Heavensbee walked straight through a solid wall—and reappeared in his beloved library.

Mr Mellark was seated at a desk, surrounded by flickering candles and a pile of opened books. So this, then, was to be the setting for their showdown. His mouth dry and his heart racing, Mr Heavensbee stepped forward out of the shadows, ready to face the other magician at last.

But instead of attacking him, Mr Mellark glanced up from the book he was reading. "In 1241, a young girl vanished from her home in Bury St Edmunds. Despite extensive searches, no trace of her was ever found. In 1341 a young girl matching her exact description was found, filthy and barefoot, in Thetford Forest. She explained that she had followed a beautiful sprite named Tom Brightwind to his home, where he had been making her wash laundry. She further explained that she had been with him for a week, and that he had told her she could go home when she was finished. She expected to be done in a day or two."

Mr Heavensbee stared at his former pupil in consternation. He had not expected Mr Mellark to be so lucid or so civil. With a slight cough, he cleared his throat and said, "The young girl's account was never formally verified—"

"Further," continued Mr Mellark, "in 1467, a fisherman reported an odd and rather disturbing sight off the coast of Portsmouth. He said that as he pulled his nets in, he spotted two young children, a boy and a girl, just below the surface of the water. They appeared to be in a great deal of distress. Well, naturally of course they would be! He reached down to try and pull them up, and was instantly pulled beneath the surface of the water himself. The children had vanished, but he could hear an ethereal and sad song in an ancient and incomprehensible tongue. He pulled himself back into his boat and went home to his wife. Who, it seems, was a great deal surprised to see him, for he had been missing for well over three years."

"Once again," began Mr Heavensbee, "these reports—"

"In 1511 a beautiful young milkmaid from Kendal went to sleep one night, and in the morning she spoke of a lavish ball that she had attended, and how she hadn't wanted to leave. The next morning, she spoke of the same ball. On the third morning, when she awoke, this sprightly young maiden was well over eighty years old. She hadn't left, and had only been ejected from the ball once the fairies present had considered her too old and ugly."

"Mr Mellark, I—"

"My point is that throughout history there have been many, many inexplicable stories, that may or may not be false. The one thing that links them all are fairies. And today we have in our midst a young woman, brought back to life by magic, who suffers from... _inexplicable_...maladies."

Mr Heavensbee kept his counsel while Mr Mellark raised an eyebrow at him.

"I know that you used a fairy to bring Miss Everdeen back from the grave. I have visited her in that other land, where she is subjugated by a terrible curse. As is my friend Mr Odair. And it is this same vile being that has placed this curse of darkness on me."

Mr Heavensbee swallowed heavily. Of course Mr Mellark knew. He suspected that his former pupil had known for years. "What do you want from me?" he said quietly.

Mr Mellark looked on him with pity and compassion. "The only thing I have ever wanted from you, sir. Your help."

"You were mad," said Mr Heavensbee. "I saw you, and you were mad."

"Yes, I was," said Mr Mellark. "For as long as I needed to be. I am perfectly sane now. And once again, I need your help."

He ran a shaking hand over his eyes. "I cannot help you," he said. "That being is too powerful. He will not give up what he sees as rightfully his."

"Perhaps not without a fight," said Mr Mellark.

"And you cannot defeat him."

"Not alone. But together."

Mr Heavensbee took a few tentative steps towards his former pupil. He had been expecting a fight with a madman, and was wary to do anything that could cause Mr Mellark's civility to break. But what he was proposing was ludicrous.

"Mr Mellark—"

"Come now Plutarch, I think we are little beyond such formalities."

"Peeta," he said after a great deal of hesitation, his pupil's first name feeling strange and foreign on his tongue. "I am not proud of what I did. Of the sacrifice I made—"

"And that is precisely why I need you so desperately."

"I am not as powerful as you."

"Nonsense! I have seen you perform acts of magic that I could only dream of! And you will be even more powerful now. Magic is everywhere, Plutarch, my old friend. It was hidden behind doors long since closed, but it was not so difficult to bring it back as we had assumed. All I had to do was ask them to reopen."

"What have you done?" asked Mr Heavensbee.

"I have done precisely what we had always intended. I have restored magic to England. Spells that have not worked in centuries should be perfectly practical once again. And that, my friend, is how we defeat him." He picked up a copy of _The Destruction of Murelai_ and opened it to a page that had been marked by a folded down corner. Mr Heavensbee tried to swallow his immense discomfort at the sight. "Enchanted silver. Not only does it drain a fairy's will and magic, but it puts an end to any enchantments that fairy still has in operation. In _Secrets of the Language of the Wind_ , Edward Culper describes how the spell to enchant silver worked in his youth, but an attempt as an adult failed utterly. It will work again, I am sure."

"Then you know what to do already. You do not need me."

Mr Mellark looked up from the stack of books. "I do. He has blocked all the paths to Faerie from me. But I doubt from you. You will need to be the one to take us there. Guide me."

As much as the prospect of entering Faerie terrified him, the idea that he would once again be doing magic— _new magic_ —with his protegee thrilled him immensely. "Incidentally," said Mr Heavensbee, "your labyrinth was very well constructed."

"Not nearly as well as yours," said Mr Mellark. "I had only the vaguest notion of what I was doing."

"And yet, as always, your results speak for themselves."

"Thank you," he said with the slightest of smiles.

"I suppose there is no time to waste," said Mr Heavensbee. "What do you need?"

"There are many methods to enter Faerie. I always used a full length mirror."

"There is one in my bedroom. I shall fetch it at once."

Mr Heavensbee practically jogged from the library, immediately becoming aware of the walls of the labyrinth once he entered it. Now that he was aware, he felt he should be able to navigate it with ease.

Northolt Abbey felt strangely empty and deserted. Had the servants left? Been too afraid of the unnatural darkness? And what of Mr Cato? Had he continued trying to find his way into the library alone? Was he still trapped in the magical maze? Mr Heavensbee felt oddly unconcerned. That particular mystery would be solved another day, he was certain.

But as he ventured up the stairs and into the east wing of Northolt Abbey, he experienced a most peculiar sensation. It began as a gentle pull behind his ribcage, that turned almost painful the closer he got to his bedroom. Then, almost like a piece of elastic that had been pulled too far and snapped, he experienced the sudden feel of movement and being thrown backwards. He landed in a heap at the bottom of his staircase, and Mr Mellark was on the floor beside him.

"What on Earth happened?" asked Mr Mellark.

"I am not entirely certain, but I have a theory," said Mr Heavensbee. "When I was watching you to try and ascertain your movements, I noticed a strange phenomena. Every time you performed magic, the veil of darkness around you seemed to thicken somewhat. It was as if it were attracted, not to you as such, but to your magic. I have a feeling that this Fairy being, when casting the spell to trap you, didn't name you as such, but merely called you 'The Magician.' As such, anyone who possesses a magical ability could well be trapped here with us. It just goes to show the vital importance of accuracy when spell-casting."

"Anyone with magical ability?" said Mr Mellark, panic seeping into the edge of his voice. "Would that include Haymitch? Because I have a mission for him to complete."

"Haymitch is not here," said Mr Heavensbee happily. "I already had my suspicions about this tower, and when an opportunity to send him away arose, I took it."

"I am most relieved to hear it," said Mr Mellark. "Now, let us try and open this pathway."

***

Mr Cato was in a great deal of distress. One moment he had been by Mr Heavensbee's side, and the next moment Heavensbee had vanished into thin air, right before his eyes. He had paced up and down the corridors, trying to find a way into the library. But all of his efforts had proven to be entirely fruitless.

He had returned to the study and helped himself to Heavensbee's brandy, and attempted to drink it with an air of nonchalance. However, much as he hated to admit it to himself, the unnatural dark and the eerie silence that pervaded the walls at Northolt Abbey set him on edge, and he set out around the Yorkshire mansion to find company. Even that of a servant; if he had someone to shout at and make sarcastic remarks towards, it would surely ease his own fraught nerves.

But it appeared that the servants had all already escaped Mellark's Tower of Darkness, for not a soul was to be found anywhere.

He would not admit it, not even to himself, but the eerie silence and darkness was hugely unnerving, and every now and then he thought he heard a whisper of an accusation. Something that sounded awfully like Mr Crane.

"I know you're not here," he said out loud into the darkness. "You cannot fool me!"

But the whispers grew louder by degrees. " _Coward_ ," they seemed to say over and over again. " _Coward_."

"I shall show you who is a coward!" shouted Mr Cato, back at the cruel whispers. And he ran back outside to the stables, and mounted a powerful black horse.

It was a strange feeling, escaping the Eternal Night. For one moment he was surrounded by pitch black and silence, and the next he was returned to England. To its overcast skies, that appeared as a summer's day to his frightened eyes, and to the constant chatter of birds, the gentle whisper of a breeze through the trees. But he could not escape the feeling of being watched, nor of the accusations that the Darkness had made to him, and he continued to ride.

Eventually, he came to a fork in the road. And one of the paths looked ancient and overgrown; the trees seemed more alive and sentient than usual. Everything about the path screamed _danger_ and yet Mr Cato eyed the path with a grim satisfaction. "Coward, am I, Crane?" he muttered. "I shall show you who is a coward."

He urged his horse onwards, despite the beast's constant whinnying and protests, but eventually it became too nervous, and he dismounted lest the thing try to throw him off.

The whispers seemed to have grown louder again, and Mr Cato pressed forward on foot, determination coursing through his veins. All at once, the world seemed to shimmer; it became eerily thin and fragile, as if it were merely an impression of the world painted on rice paper, something that could be torn with the slightest of effort. And then it reformed.

He stood on the stage of an enormous amphitheatre; the stone seats around him rose up into the sky as far as the eye could see, and the audience viewed him with hungry apprehension.

To the side of the stage was a man dressed in the tattered and blood-stained uniform of a foot soldier. He dragged a body towards a copse of thorned trees at the edge of the stage, and then, with difficulty, he picked the body up and hung it amongst the thorns where it joined several other dead bodies in various stages of decay.

The foot soldier turned and looked at Mr Cato with hollow, dead eyes and slowly walked towards him. As he did so, Mr Cato pulled out his pistols, and checked they were loaded.

"I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena. I defend their honour to the death," said the man. "And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

"A while ago, a villain by the name of Haymitch Abernathy came to your land," said Mr Cato. "You challenged him to a similar dual, and like a coward, he refused. I am here to erase that stain of cowardice and return a sense of pride to England."

The soldier cocked his head slightly to the side. "I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena," he repeated in a hollow voice. "I defend their honour to the death. And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

"Fine. If it makes you fight, then know that I mean all kinds of harm to your people's honour. That I will harm them after I have dealt with you. Now, are we to dual or not?"

The soldier nodded slightly, then raised his own pistol. But at the last minute, Mr Cato could have sworn that the soldier pointed his pistol slightly too far to the left on purpose, and as soon as Mr Cato fired, the soldier dropped to the ground, causing an enormous, roaring cheer to erupt from the watching crowds.

"Fool," he said out loud, satisfied with what he had done. He slowly walked up to the body and looked upon it with disdain. Really, these fairy types were not all that powerful, despite what Mr Heavensbee had always said. He picked up the body with ease, and dragged it to the side of the stage, where he selected a thorny branch, and hung the body up amongst the others. To pass the time a little, he refilled his pistol, and took a few potshots at the other corpses hanging there.

From behind him, he heard a noise, as of footsteps approaching, and he turned on the spot to face the intruder.

"I am the victor of the people of the Capitol's arena. I defend their honour to the death," said Mr Cato in a hollow and toneless voice. "And there can only be one victor. Do you offer yourself up in tribute?"

The sun was feebly attempting to penetrate the thick cover of mist that clung to the moors like a damp blanket. Haymitch had ridden through the night and was exhausted. But the sooner he reached London, the sooner he could attempt to restore Miss Everdeen to full life, and then attempt to save Mr Heavensbee from Mr Mellark. Or Mr Mellark from Mr Heavensbee. He was undecided which.

But as he rode, a most bizarre sight caught his eye. It looked to be a bundle of rags on the ground, with an enormous shard of glass sticking straight up out of it.

As he approached, he realised with a feeling of dread that this was not a bundle of rags. This was a man, who looked to have been pierced with an enormous crystal arrow. And with an increase of terror, Haymitch realised that he knew who this man was.

"Marvel," he whispered as he dismounted the horse and knelt down beside the body. Very slowly he reached out to touch the strange arrow. It was as cold as ice, and he withdrew his hand immediately.

How had this man come to be so far from London? And who had fired this ice-arrow at him? And how had he, Haymitch, managed to come across the body in the middle of nowhere?

Whatever the answers were, he could not leave Marvel's body out here to be devoured by wild animals. He would take it with him, and and have him buried in a suitable spot. He wrapped a cloth several times around his hand, and pulled the ice arrow from Marvel's body, then picked him up and laid him over the back of his horse. As he did so, he became horribly aware that he was being watched.

Several hundred ravens flew overhead, blocking the sky and Haymitch grew more nervous by degrees. And then he saw a lone figure walking across the moors towards him; a man dressed entirely in black, with long, shining black hair.

Haymitch found his pistol and loaded it; something about the man unnerved him greatly and he held his breath, hoping that the man would change course and direction. But instead he appeared to pick up the pace, and in no time at all, the man was before him.

He was beautiful. There was no other word for him. His eyes were as black as night, his skin pale and shining, and his lips upturned in the slightest of smirks. And yet despite his unearthly beauty, there was something familiar and comforting about him.

Without a single word, the man walked up to Haymitch's horse, and picked the body up, laying it on the ground.

"That body belongs to me, sir," said Haymitch, "and I would ask that you move away from it."

But the man ignored him entirely.

Haymitch raised his pistol. "I shall not ask you again."

The man pulled open Marvel's tattered shirt. Covering his body was a series of blue tattoos, all written in a strange and foreign language. The man placed a finger at the top of Marvel's torso, then dragged it down. The tattoos moved and spilled over one another, like ink in a bath of water.

In fear and confusion, Haymitch pulled the trigger. But no bullet came out, and the gun in his hand turned into a pitch black raven, and flew away.

"Who are you?" asked Haymitch.

The man drew his finger over Marvel's torso once again, and the ink reformed into new tattoos in the same incomprehensible language.

"Who are you?" repeated Haymitch.

"You know me," said the man.

"I do not know you," replied Haymitch.

"Why, Haymitch Abernathy. Not twenty-four hours ago, you pledged your allegiance to me. You said that nothing would please you more than to be able to offer your allegiance to your true leader."

With as little ceremony as a mother wiping a speck of dirt from a child's face, the man licked his thumb and drew it across the deep cut on Haymitch's cheek. He could feel it heal immediately. He then pulled aside a thick veil of mist as if it were a curtain, but before he stepped through it, he placed his hand open the top of Haymitch's head. It felt as though he were no longer able to bear his own weight, and he fell to the ground.

Beside him, with a huge, rasping, shuddering breath, Marvel sat up beside him.

"He was here, wasn't he?" said Marvel. "The King?"

Haymitch looked at the man who sat on the cold ground beside him. His mind was confused and muddied. He could have sworn that a moment ago Marvel had been dead. And there had been a strange and mysterious figure, one who had walked out of the mist, and who Haymitch had known, deep in his heart, and who he had loved unconditionally for his entire life. But it couldn't be...

"He's left the door open for us," said Marvel pointing ahead of him, and Haymitch noticed the strange patch of air that seemed to lead to a different world. "We should go on ahead. A lot of lives are depending on it."

Marvel jumped to his feet and looked down at his own body in delight. "He has rewritten me!" he declared.

"Rewritten...?"

"Indeed! I was a prophecy. Who knows what I am now? Perhaps the greatest Book of Magic ever written? Or maybe I am merely a cookbook? Who knows?"

Marvel seemed decidedly spritely and unconcerned for one who had been dead not long ago. He held a blue-covered hand out towards Haymitch and helped him up.

"Whatever you are," said Haymitch, "I am not letting you out of my sight."

With a grin, Marvel put an arm about his shoulders, and together they stepped through the mist's door, into another world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to titania522 for betaing this, and to loving-mellark for the utterly stunning new banner!
> 
> And, I know I said that Peeta & Katniss would be reunited in this chapter, and I'm mega sorry - but they WILL be together next chapter.
> 
> And there's only one more chapter, and the epilogue to go. Thank you all so very much for sticking with this story. You're all amazing!


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